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LECTURES 



RHETORIC AND BELLES-LETTRES 



BY HUGH BLAIR, D.D. & F.R.S. Ed. 

ONE OF THE MINISTERS OF THE HIGH CHURCH, AND PROFESSOR OF RHETORIC AND BELLES LETTRES 
IN THE UNIVERSITY OF EDINBURGH. 



A NEW EDITION, 

WITH AN INTRODUCTORY ESSAY 

BY THE 

REV. THOMAS DALE, A. M., 

CANON RESIDENTIARY OF ST. PAUL'S. 



LONDON : 
PRINTED FOR THOMAS TEGG, 

73, CHEAPSIDE. 
1845. * 



0> 



LONDON : 
J. HADDON, PRINTER, CASTLE STREET, FINSBURY. 



GIF! 
ESTATE 

IftfltLlAWl C 






^ ± 5 



PREFACE. 



The following Lectures were read in the University 
of Edinburgh, for twenty-four years. The publication 
of them, at present, was not altogether a matter of 
choice. Imperfect copies of them in manuscript, from 
notes taken by students who heard them read, were 
first privately handed about ; and afterwards frequently 
exposed to public sale. When the author saw them 
circulate so currently, as even to be quoted in print,* 
and found himself often threatened with surreptitious 
publications of them, he judged it to be high time 
that they should proceed from his own hand, rather 
than come into public view under some very defective 
and erroneous form. 

They were originally designed for the initiation of 
youth into the study of Belles Lettres, and of Composi- 
tion. With the same intention they are now published ; 

* Biographia Britannica, Article Addison, 



IV PREFACE. 



and, therefore, the form of Lectures, in which they 
were at first composed, is still retained. The author 
gives them to the world, neither as a work wholly 
original, nor as a compilation from the writings of 
others. On every subject contained in them, he has 
thought for himself. He consulted his own ideas 
and reflections : and a great part of what will be 
found in these Lectures is entirely his own. At the 
same time, he availed himself of the ideas and re- 
flections of others, as far as he thought them proper 
to be adopted. To proceed in this manner was his 
duty as a public professor. It was incumbent on 
him, to convey to his pupils all the knowledge that 
could improve them ; to deliver not merely what was 
new, but what might be useful, from whatever quarter 
it came. He hopes, that to such as are studying to 
cultivate their taste, to form their style, or to prepare 
themselves for public speaking or composition, his 
Lectures will afford a more comprehensive view of 
what relates to these subjects, than, as far as he 
knows, is to be received from any one book in our 
language. 

In order to render his work of greater service, he 
has generally referred to the books which he con- 
sulted, as far as he remembers them ; that the readers 
might be directed to any farther illustration which 
they afford. But, as such a length of time has 
elapsed since the first composition of his Lectures, 



PREFACE. V 

he may, perhaps, have adopted the sentiments of 
some author into whose writings he had then looked, 
without now remembering whence he derived them. 

In the opinions which he has delivered concerning 
such a variety of authors, and of literary matters, as 
come under his consideration, he cannot expect that 
all his readers will concur with him. The subjects 
are of such a nature, as allow room for much diver- 
sity of taste and sentiment : and the author will 
respectfully submit to the judgment of the public. 

Retaining the simplicity of the Lecturing style, as 
best fitted for conveying instruction, he has aimed, 
in his language, at no more than perspicuity. If, 
after the liberties which it was necessary for him 
to take, in criticising the style of the most eminent 
writers in our language, his own style shall be thought 
open to reprehension, all that he can say is, that his 
book will add one to the many proofs already afforded 
to the world, of its being much easier to give in- 
struction than to set example. 



CONTENTS. 



LECTURE. PAGE- 

Introductory Essay, by the Rev. T. Dale, M.A. . . ix 

I. Introduction ......... 1 

II. Taste 9 

III. Criticism— Genius— Pleasures of Taste— Sublimity in Objects 20 

IV. The Sublime in Writing . . 32 

^ V. Beauty, and other Pleasures of Taste . . . . .45 

VI. Rise and Progress of Language 54 

VII. Rise and Progress of Language and of Writing ... 65 

VIII. Structure of Language 76 

IX. Structure of Language— English Tongue 88 

'■' X. Style — Perspicuity and Precision 101 

XI. Structure of Sentences H2 

XII. Structure of Sentences 124 

XIII. Structure of Sentences — Harmony .136 

XIV. Origin and Nature of Figurative Language . . . • 149 

XV. Metaphor 162 

XVI. Hyperbole — Personification — Apostrophe . . . • 174 
XVII. Comparison, Antithesis, Interrogation, Exclamation, and other 

Figures of Speech 188 

("XVIII. Figurative Language — General Characters of Style — Diffuse, Con- 
cise—Feeble, Nervous— Dry, Plain, Neat, Elegant, Flowery 199 
/ XIX. General Characters of Style— Simple, Affected, Vehement— 

Directions for forming a proper Style 213 

h XX. Critical Examination of the Style of Mr. Addison, in No. 411 

of the Spectator 225 

XXI. Critical Examination of the Style in No. 412 of the Spectator 236 

• XXII. Critical Examination of the Style in No. 413 of the Spectator 245 

f XXIII. Critical Examination of the Style in No. 414 of the Spectator 253 
XXIV. Critical Examination of the Style in a Passage of Dean Swift's 

Writings 261 



Vlll 





LECTURE 




XXV. 


(X 


XXVI. 


XXVII. 


XXVIII. 




XXIX. 




XXX. 




XXXI. 



* 



XXXII. 



XXXIII. 

X XXXIV. 

XXXV. 

XXXVI. 
XXXVII. 

XXXVIII. 

XXXIX. 

XL. 

XLI. 

XLII. 

XLIII. 

XLIV. 



XLV. 

XLVI. 

XLVII. 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

Eloquence, or Public Speaking — History of Eloquence — Grecian 

Eloquence — Demosthenes . . . . . . 273 

History of Eloquence continued — Roman Eloquence — Cicero 

— Modern Eloquence 286 

Different Kinds of Public Speaking — Eloquence of Popular 

Assemblies — Extracts from Demosthenes . . . . 298 

Eloquence of the Bar — Analysis of Cicero's Oration for Cluentius 314 

Eloquence of the Pulpit 329 

Critical Examination of a Sermon of Bishop Atterbury's . . 343 
Conduct of a Discourse in all its Parts — Introduction — Division 

— Narration and Explication 359 

Conduct of a Discourse — The Argumentative Part — The Pathetic 

Part—The Peroration 372 

Pronunciation, or Delivery 385 

Means of improving in Eloquence . 398 

Comparative Merit of the Ancients and the Moderns — Historical 

Writing 409 

Historical Writing 421 

Philosophical Writing — Dialogue— Epistolary Writing — Fictitious 

History 434 

Nature of Poetry — Its Origin and Progress — Versification . . 446 

Pastoral Poetry — Lyric Poetry 459 

Didactic Poetry — Descriptive Poetry 474 

The Poetry of the Hebrews 487 

Epic Poetry 499 

Homer's I Iliad and Odyssey — Virgil's ^Eneid . . . 511 
Lucan's Pharsalia — Tasso's Jerusalem — Camoen's Lusiad — Fene- 

lon's Telemachus — Voltaire's Henriade — Milton's Paradise 

Lost 524 

Dramatic Poetry — Tragedy . 539 

Tragedy — Greek — French — English Tragedy .... 553 

Comedy — Greek and Roman — French — English Comedy . 568 



INTRODUCTORY ESSAY, 
BY THE REV. THOMAS DALE, M.A., 



CANON RESIDENTIARY OP ST. PAULS. 



The proper object of prefatory remarks is to introduce or 
to recommend the volume to which they are prefixed. In the 
present undertaking, however, there is no scope for either. Dr. 
Blair's " Lectures on Rhetoric and the Belles Lettres" have now 
been before the public for considerably more than half a century, 
and still retain their original high position in popular esteem, not- 
withstanding the questionable character of some of the Author's 
canons of criticism, and the occasional contradiction of his own 
rules for style and structure in his own sentences. The con- 
cluding sentence of the Preface to the First Edition will afford 
a. singular example of the latter. 

" Retaining the simplicity of the Lecturing style as best fitted 
for conveying instruction, he has aimed in his language at no 
more thr.n perspicuity. If, after the liberties which it was 
necessary for him to take in criticizing the style of the most 
eminent writers in the language, his own style shall be thought 
open to reprehension, all that he can say is, that his book will 
add one to the many proofs already afforded to the world, of its 
being much easier to give instruction than to set example." 

" All that he can say is, that his book." It had been better if 
our Author had here avoided the repetition of the word that, 
which detracts from the harmony of the sentence, without add- 
ing to its strength. According to his own rule,* "this extended 

* Xect. xx. Criticism on the Spectator, No. 411. 



X INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

sort of ^phraseology is proper only when some assertion of con- 
sequence is advanced," and the repetition of such little words as 
that ought to be regarded as " redundant and enfeebling." But 
there is a much more grave offence against the rules of expres- 
sion in the concluding clause, where Dr. Blair's good taste has 
not preserved him from a use, or rather an abuse, of the parti- 
ciple present, which is utterly inadmissible into the serious and 
didactic style. " Proofs afforded to the world of its being easier 
to give instruction than to set example." Better if the sentence 
had run thus : " If . . . his own style shall be thought open to 
reprehension, he can only say that his book will add one to the 
many proofs already afforded to the world, how much easier it 
is to give instruction than to set example." 

We do not cite this instance of inaccuracy, or rather in- 
elegance, with any view of detracting from Dr. Blair's well 
earned reputation, but simply on the principle that it is the 
exception which proves the rule. Homer is not less entitled to 
the pre-eminence among all classic Poets, because his muse, 
especially in the Odyssey, is seized with an occasional fit of 
drowsiness ; nor is Dr. Blair less to be regarded as a model of 
the purity and perspicuity of style that he commends, because 
two or three vulgarisms and five or six Scotticisms, are in- 
terspersed throughout forty-seven Lectures, filling a closely 
printed volume. "We would only caution the student of elo- 
quence against yielding himself implicitly to the guidance of any 
authority, however deservedly paramount ; and lead him to con- 
sider that he has not perfectly mastered Dr. Blair's principles 
of criticism, unless they have opened his eyes to occasional defects 
or blemishes in Dr. Blair's own style. And having premised 
this caution, we will proceed to the only task which remains for 

the writer of a Preface to a work of such established and merited 

* 

reputation, by endeavouring to supply some useful information 
concerning the Rise and Progress of the English Language, 
which did not, from circumstances, enter into the plan of Dr. 
Blair, but which may neither be uninteresting nor unprofitable 
to those who desire to be initiated into the " study of Belles 
Lettres and of English Composition." 

" The history of the English Language," observes the Pro- 
fessor in Lect. ix., "can be clearly traced." He does not, how- 
ever, devote any portion of his Lectures to the important and 
interesting task of tracing its progress; but states only in general 



INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. XI 

terms the elements of which it is composed, in order to account 
for the manifold irregularities and anomalies which pervade it 
in every part. What then he has left undone it will be our 
endeavour to accomplish ; peculiar facilities being afforded for 
investigating the origin, and tracing the progress of the English 
Language as compared with many others. We have the oak 
in the sapling : we follow the stream backward to its source. 

1. "The Teutonic Dialect," says Dr. Blair, "is the basis of 
our present speech. It has been imported among us in three 
forms : the Saxon, the Danish, and the Norman, all which 
have mingled together in our language." Now this statement 
must be taken with some qualification. Of the Danish there 
are no vestiges discoverable in the English language, and the 
process of its formation will be more distinctly traced if we con^ 
sider it as developed in the four following stages or periods : — 

1. Pure Saxon. From A.D. 680 to A.D. 1200. 

II. The Intermediate Diction. From A.D. 1200 to A.D. 1340. 

III. The Progressive English. .From A.D. 1340 to A.D. 1500. 
IY- The Perfect English. Commencing with the writers 

of the reign of Henry VIII, and consummated in those of the 
Elizabethan age. 

2. The earliest written monument of the Teutonic Dialect 
which has been preserved is a version of the Gospels made by 
Ulphilas, Bishop of the Mseso-Goths, about A. D. 360. He is 
said to have invented the Gothic alphabet, which is simply an 
adaptation, or distortion rather, of the Roman. The Anglo-? 
Saxon, evidently a daughter of the ancient Gothic, was intro- 
duced into England about A.D. 446. Whatever of civilization 
or literature had emanated from the Romans, antecedently to 
this period, was then swept away by the torrent of an undiscrimi- 
nating desolation. The Saxons were essentially a new people, 
absorbing or annihilating the inhabitants whom they found: 
and as Tacitus states that the Goths, in his time, were utterly 
ignorant of alphabetic writing, so we may suppose that the 
language of the Saxons also was destitute of an alphabet, until 
the Christian religion was revived in England by Augustine 
and his brother missionaries, who arrived in this land about 
A. D. 596. The instructions which Pope Gregory had given 
to this devoted company breathe a spirit of wisdom and modera- 
tion highly creditable to that distinguished pontiff. « Intro- 
duce into the English Church," he said to Augustine, "what- 

b 2 



XU INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

ever good thou canst collect from any church ; the thing must 
not be loved for the place, but the place for the thing." One of 
the good things ascribed to Augustine, accordingly, was the 
adaptation of the Roman alphabet to the symbolic expression of 
the Anglo-Saxon language ; itself a giant-stride towards civili- 
zation, though nearly a century intervenes before we observe 
the fruit of its practical application in the rescue of even one 
short poem from oblivion. 

3. Whether, however, the honour of forming the Saxon 
alphabet belongs to Augustine or not, we may safely assign 
the date of its invention to the close of the sixth, or the com- 
mencement of the seventh century; while the shape of the 
letters establishes, beyond all possibility of doubt, the fact of 
its formation immediately from the Roman. All that remains 
of Saxon literature has of necessity been handed down by 
MSS., and in these the letters assume a variety of forms, ac- 
cording to the age in which they are written. The earliest 
written piece in Saxon is a fragment of a poem composed by 
Caedmon the Monk, who died about A.D. 680. The circum- 
stances under which this hymn was written are thus related by 
the venerable Bede. 

4. It was customary at Saxon entertainments, that the guests 
should accompany their own voices in succession with the harp: 
their songs must have been obviously, therefore, in the vernacular 
dialect, and the subjects of these extemporary prolusions were 
confined, in all probability, to the delights of drinking and the 
trophies of war. At such a feast was present one Caedmon, or 
Chedmon, who had for many years followed the humble occupa- 
tion of a cowherd, and had already attained to an advanced period 
of life. The guests sang as usual, each in his turn, Icetitice causa 
(for the sake of promoting conviviality), and the harp was passed 
accordingly from one to another. Caedmon saw it approaching 
himself, and conscious of his own inability to produce any- 
thing deserving the attention of the company, quitted the table 
abruptly and retired to his own home. But the mortifying 
sense of inferiority followed him to his pillow, and haunted him 
even in his sleep. He dreamt that a stranger presented him a 
harp and invited him to sing. He declined, alleging the failure 
of the preceding day as a proof that he really had not the power. 
" Nay," rejoined the stranger, " but you have the power." 
" What then would you have me sing," demanded the astonished 



INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. Xlll 

Csedmon? " The Creation," replied the mysterious visitant; 
and immediately, from whatever cause, the poetical faculties of 
the dreamer were supernaturally quickened to the production of 
a short poem on the subject — no unsubstantial phantom of the 
imagination, . . . for he remembered it when he awoke. To our 
obtuse apprehension, the piece will appear more laudable for its 
piety than its poetry ; and however the thoughts may be of 
heaven* the language will scarcely appear too elevated for a 
mere earthly minstrel. Camden, however, in his " Remaines 
concerning Britain," speaks enthusiastically of " old Caedmon, 
who, by divine inspiration, became so sweet a poet in our 
English tongue, that by his sweet verses, full of inspiration, he 
withdrew many from vice to virtue and a religious fear of God." 
It is true, he qualifies this rather exuberant eulogium by ad- 
mitting, that " the age was so overcast with the thick fogs of 
ignorance, that every little spark of learning seemed wonderful." 
So brightly, however, shone this " little spark" in the eyes of 
the good monks of Whitby, that after a farther trial of his 
powers, either they or the abbess of St. Hilda, solicited 
Csedinon to renounce his undignified occupation, assume the 
habit of their order, and devote himself exclusively to the culti- 
vation of religious poetry. He complied, . . and having acquired 
a competent knowledge of scripture history from his former 
masters, made such good use of it, that he versified the entire 
contents of the Bible, with a success that defied, according to 
Bede, all future competition. Unquestionably, if the Saxon 
poems attributed to this writer, of which Mr. Sharon Turner has 
given a copious analysis in the " History of the Anglo-Saxons," 
are really his production, the commendations of Bede, and even 
of Camden, would be by no means undeserved, and we should 
justly designate Caedmon as the Homer of Saxon poetry. 

5. This earliest accredited and undoubted specimen of that 
language, which is the groundwork of our present English, may 
profitably be submitted to a verbal analysis, for it will establish 
several principles of the greatest importance to our subsequent 
inquiries. First, it will present a fair average of the proportion 
which Saxon primitives bear, in our received vocabulary, to de- 
rivatives from other sources. Secondly, it will exhibit, in 
several striking instances, the affinity of the Saxon with the 
Latin and the Greek, for which the reader will be pleased to 
account on any hypothesis which may be satisfactory to himself. 



XIV 



INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 



It will be our prudence in this short summary, to avoid all de- 
batable ground, content with exhibiting facts as premises, and 
leaving conclusions to be drawn by others. 

6. Csedmon's heaven-inspired production consists only of 
eighteen lines ; and is, in fact, little more than a paraphrase of 
the first verse of the first chapter of Genesis, as will appear from 
the literal English translation, which is printed in the parallel 
column, the equivalent words in each being printed in the italic 
character. 



Nn we sceolan herigean 

Heofon-vice's weard, 

Metodes mihte, 

And his mod gethanc, 

Weorc wuldor feeder, 

Swa he wuldres ( h ) ge-whzes (*) 

Ece Drihten ! 

Ord onstealde. 

He seresf gescop 

Eorthan bearnum 

Heofon to rofe. 

Halig Scyppend ! 

Tha middan geurd, 

Mon-cynnes weard, 

Ece Drihtne ! 

CEfter teode 

Firum foldan, 

Frea almihtig ! 



Now we shall to-praise 

Heaven-Kingdom's guardian, 

Creator's might, 

And his mind thoughts, 

Of works glorious Father. 

As he of every ( a ) glory ( b ) (wonder) 

Eternal Lord 

Beginning established. 

He first shaper 

Earth for ^bairns (children) 

Heaven to roof, (canopy). 

Holy Shaper ! 

The mid-earth, 

Mankind's guardian, 

Eternal Lord, 

Afterwards made 

For-men the-ground, 

Father Almighty ! 



7. From this view it will appear, that about two-thirds of the 
Saxon Avords in the poem of Caedmon are terms in present use, 
and of the remainder several bear so striking a resemblance to 
the Latin and the Greek, that there can, be no hesitation in 
tracing them to a common source. What is ric, a kingdom, gen. 
ric-es ; but the theme reg in rego ; and ord, the beginning, but 
the theme of ord-ior, to begin? What is weorc, work, but 
cpyov, digammated, ovzpyov ; fozder 'but 7rar»?p ; rofe but 
6)go(J)(og ? Who cannot trace what may be termed an idiomatic 
affinity in halig, from hale or whole, i. q. Latin integer ? What is 
fir a man, of which fir-um is the dative, but equivalent by a com- 
mon interchange to the Latin vir? What is ge-wh(Bs, but a com- 
pound of kindred formation with cujus-que : and what is the dative 
termination um, but the reflection of the invariable Greek 
suffix in the plural genitive wv? Receiving then the Anglo-Saxon 
language in such a state, nearly a century after the arrival of 



INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. XV 

Augustine, how can we form any estimate of the extent of its 
original resources? or how can we assign any limits to the 
accessions which it may have received during this interval of 
darkness, from the patient and quiet industry of the missionaries 
and their successors? We cannot but believe, that they who 
made every monastery, whatever else it might be, a sanctuary 
and school of learniug, would incorporate suitable symbols from 
their own language, when they could not find any in the rude 
dialect of their untoward and uncouth disciples. Thus we may 
rationally account for the more obvious and striking of these" 
affinities, whether of diction or of regimen; unless we prefer the 
hypothesis of the eccentric Verstegan, who deriving babble from 
Babel, i. e. confusion, gravely pronounces the unmusical Teu- 
tonic to have been the veritable language in which Adam wooed 
his spouse, and the arch-tempter charmed the. mother of mankind. 

8. The short poem which has been given may serve as a spe- 
cimen, and a very favourable specimen, of the mind, as well as 
the style, of Saxon poetry. Drinking and battle were no longer 
the exclusive themes of verse ; . . and religion softened and hu- 
manized, if it did not elevate or enliven, the vernacular strains. 
But the era of imaginative poetry was yet to come. Romances, 
minstrels, troubadours, were to open the path into the realms of 
fancy ; at present, being only the narrative of fact, poetry 
dwindled into mere periphrasis. To borrow a term from the 
Greek tragedian, it consisted principally in polyonomy. Thus, 
in the short poem already given, no less than seven lines out of 
eighteen are periphrases of Deity ; and in a poem on the deluge, 
imputed to this same Caedmon, there are no less than twenty- 
six periphrases for the ark, some of which are highly poetical 
It is designated " the greatest of watery chambers, the greatest 
sea-house, the house of the deep, the palace of the ocean, the 
wooden fortress, the building of the waves, and the happy recep- 
tacle." Sufficient this to explain what we intend by periphrasis 
or polyonomy, viz. the repetition of the idea with variation only 
of the terms. 

9. It is a singular fact, that from the time of Caedmon to the 
days of the admirable Alfred, there is not, if we may trust one 
of the most competent living authorities, ( a single affectionate 
allusion to the fair sex in any Anglo-Saxon poem whatever.' 
For this it is not difficult to account. The national bards, 
" scopas" or shapers, as they were termed (ttouitcu) were content 



XVI INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

with the raw material on which nature had tried her ' prentice 
han,' and could only model the hero or the homicide (convertible 
terms) in features as grotesque as they were gigantic. Woman 
-was degraded into that condition of domestic servitude, which is 
invariably the attribute and accompaniment of barbarism : and it 
was long after the time of Alfred when the coronation of a queen 
endangered even the safety of the monarch and the stability of the 
throne. The ecclesiastical profession might have been supposed 
capable of better things ; but though Gregory I. had decided that 
clerks in minor orders might marry, the very limitation consigned 
all its more distinguished members to perpetual celibacy ; while 
it must be palpably evident, that the monastic rule connects with 
itself, as a necessary consequence, the degradation of the female 
sex. On the one hand, therefore, the pomp and circumstance of 
war ; on the other, monkish legends, and treatises of divinity in 
verse, engaged and evaporated the national intellect; even the 
scanty channels in which a sluggish stream of learning had 
begun to flow, were gradually choked up ; and when Alfred took 
the kingdom, in the year 871, there were very few priests on 
this side the Humber, and not many beyond it, who could un- 
derstand their daily prayers in English, or translate any letter 
from the Latin. " They were so few," says Alfred, " that I 
cannot recollect one instance south of the Thames, when I took 
the kingdom." 

10. Was then this long interval of two centuries enveloped in 
total darkness ? Are there no stars of literature emerging 
through the gloom ? Doubtless there were names which would 
have done honour to any period — Aldhelm, Bede, Alcuin, Eri- 
gena, and Asser. But these great men wrote, not for their 
countrymen, but for the world : and Latin was the universal 
language. In Latin, therefore, they recorded their works* 
contemning their native Saxon as though it were unmingled 
dross, and contained no elements, whieh their diligence and dex- 
terity could evolve, of the pure and precious gold. It is indeed 
recorded of Aldhelm, who was abbot of Malmsbury, and died in 
709, bishop of Sherborne, that he was accustomed, much to 
his honour, to place himself on bridges, and sing religious 
ballads or canticles, (cantilenae) to the passengers in the vernacu- 
lar tongue, that they might be excited to the love of learning, 
and to the desire of piety. These cantilena?, however, have 
perished in the wreck of time : and it is almost irrelevant to say, 



/ 



INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. XV11 

in a sketch of the history of the English language, that one whose 
extant works are written exclusively in Latin is neat (nitidus) 
in his style, most learned, and wonderfully skilled in secular and 
ecclesiastical literature. The good bishop claims great praise to 
himself, that he introduced into England the cultivation of the 
Latin muse ; it is a far higher eulogy, if it be true, as we read 
in the lives of the saints, " that in king Alfred's time many of 
St. Aldhelm's ditties were yet sung in England." 

11. Of the various mutations which the Anglo-Saxon language 
underwent during the time of Egbert or his immediate suc- 
cessors, previously to the accession of Alfred, it is needless to 
speak particularly, for two reasons. First, the dates of the 
various existing relics of Saxon poetry are not capable of being 
ascertained with any degree of precision ; and secondly, the 
changes, whatever they were, seem to have exercised but little 
influence over our present English. The Saxon lay neglected, 
like a diamond in the clay : there was none to purge away the 
encircling dross, or to elicit the latent polish and purity of the 
gem. We must, however, assign to the distinguished men whose 
names have been enumerated an important though a secondary 
praise. If they were only as the radiant streaks across a sky 
mantled in darkness, they heralded the approach of dawn. They 
contributed, in no ordinary degree, to form the mind and direct 
the studies of that prince, who was destined to effect for Saxon 
literature all that they ought themselves to have accomplished : 
and he has woven a purer and more enduring wreath to adorn 
his name, by the culture, from the most generous and patriotic 
motives, of his native language, than he could have obtained by 
all the poetry of Aldhelm, all the philosophy of Alcuin, and all 
the sanctity of Bede. Their virtues and their endowments 
were their own : his were the property of his countrymen and 
of all mankind. 

12. At the age of six years, Alfred accompanied his father 
Ethelwolf to Rome, where he was solemnly adopted by the 
reigning pontiff, Leo IV., as his son, and anointed as suc- 
cessor to the crown. Notwithstanding this pontifical and 
prophetic designation, however, his early education was com- 
pletely neglected. Says the good old chronicler, Robert of 
Gloucester, a writer as trustworthy as he is the opposite of 
poetical, 






XV111 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

" CJerc he was good enough ; and yet, as they tell me, 
He was more than ten years old, ere he ^outhe his ABC, 
And his good mother often small giftes to him took, 
For to leave all other play, and to look upon his hook." 

His " good mother," as the kind-hearted old doggrelist calls her ; 
meaning thereby his mother-in-law, Judith, daughter of Charles 
the Bald, (a person who little merited such an appellation on 
other grounds), was at least useful to Alfred : towards whom in- 
deed she soon contracted a nearer relationship, having disgraced 
her sex and station by a marriage little less than incestuous with 
the son of her late husband, Alfred's brother. The ' small 
gift' which was immediately instrumental either in kindling the 
spark of emulation in the bosom of the young prince, or fanning 
the already living though dormant embers into a flame, was 
a small volume of Saxon poetry, splendidly illuminated, which 
Judith promised to bestow on whichever of the young princes 
should first be able to read it. Alfred entered into competition 
with his brothers, and " looked upon his book" to such good pur- 
pose, that he carried off the prize. Animated by this success, 
he redoubled his exertions, nor ever intermitted them, till he had 
made himself master of the whole body of Saxon poetry; a 
task not very difficult, as probably the entire stock, including 
the now defunct canticles of Aldhelm, might have been comprised 
in two or three moderately sized volumes of the present day. 
Henceforth his love of letters became a passion; so that in his 
darkest hours of adversity (and they were many), he was rarely 
seen, during the brief respite which could be snatched from war 
and council, without a book in his hand. In the year 872, at 
the early age of twenty-three, he succeeded to a crown of thorns ; 
and for the first ten years of his reign was as a pendulum vibrat- 
ing between a throne and a grave. Providence, however, watch- 
ful over the destinies of his country, and designing to transmit 
from him to posterity the lustre of an example, only not perfect 
because perfection is incompatible with humanity, bestowed on 
him victory over his enemies by successes little less than 
miraculous. He had already obtained the mastery over a more 
formidable enemy — himself; and having entered the place of his 
concealment a despot and an oppressor, he had emerged from it 
a patriot, a hero, and a saint. No sooner had he obtained at the 

1 Knew. 



INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. xix 

point of the sword and spear a precarious and dearly-bought 
tranquillity, than he devoted himself with unparalleled eager- 
ness to literary pursuits ; and finding the ecclesiastical body so 
deteriorated, that few could recite and fewer understand the 
Latin prayers, he invited the most eminent scholars from Wales 
and from the continent, that the repositories of ancient learning 
might be opened to his eager gaze. 

13. The year 887 beheld Alfred in possession of a key to all 
the literature both of the continent and of his own country, 
which had so long been as " a well shut up, and a fountain sealed." 
He was now, through the able tuition of Plegmund, whom he 
made archbishop of Canterbury, and Asser, a learned monk, 
subsequently advanced to the bishopric of Sherborne, enabled to 
read the Latin authors — not by the help of translators, but 
in their own language. It could not but occur to this penetrat- 
ing and judicious prince that the obstacle most materially im- 
peding the mental and therefore the moral improvement of his 
people, was the existence of one kind of literature for the edu- 
cated classes,*' in other words, the ecclesiastics, and another for 
the uneducated, a term at that time almost synonymous and 
co-extensive with laity. He needed not to be taught the lesson 
by others which he was foremost to teach them, that whenever 
popular improvement is neglected, through the vanity or pre- 
judice of a chosen few, the injustice that is done to the com- 
munity will infallibly work out its own retribution, both in 
the degradation of the national mind, and the detriment of the 
public weal. He proceeded, however, to supply the deficiency 
with a modesty as much to be admired as his patriotism is to 
be approved. " I think it better," he said, writing to one of his 
bishops, " if you think so too, that we also translate some books, 
the more necessary for men to know, into our own language, 
that all may know them. And we may do this very easily, by 
God's help, if we still have peace ; so that all the youth that we 
have in England, who are freemen, and have so much wealth that 
they may satisfy themselves, be committed to learning, so that 
for a time they may apply to no other duty, till they can read 
English writers." 

* " I have often wondered," Alfred was wont to say, " that the illustrious scholars, 
who once nourished among the English, and who had read so many foreign works, 
never thought of transferring the most useful into their own language." 



XX INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

14. Whether Alfred did this " very easily," or in time of con- 
tinued and unbroken peace, may be learned from his biographer, 
Asser, who tells us that he was tormented with an excruciating 
disease, which rarely left him a day of ease, so that when one 
paroxysm had abated, his life was rendered miserable by the 
anticipation of the next. Added to this, he is said to have fought 
no less than fifty-six pitched battles, during a reign of only half 
as many years, against the restless and indomitable Danes. 
Nevertheless, he fulfilled, under all these disadvantages, his truly 
patriotic intention, though the book of which he made choice 
for his first attempt may perhaps excite a smile, when we con- 
sider the character of the nation which he designed and under- 
took to teach. No people could be more antiphilosophical than 
the Saxons ; yet Alfred selected for their instruction, the work 
of Boethius, " De Consolatione Philosophise," which would seem 
like placing Locke or Newton into the hands of a child which 
had barely mastered its alphabet. We must not, however, judge 
precipitately. The work enjoyed at that time a reputation far 
beyond its comparative deserts ; and Alfred's version is not so 
much a translation as a paraphrase, interspersed too with very con- 
siderable portions of original matter. Of these, striking instances 
may be seen in Sharon Turner's History of the Anglo-Saxons 
We are concerned only with the style and diction of the royal 
translator, who appears as a poet when translating the metrums 
of Boethius. We will content ourselves with analyzing a brief 
passage of his work, which may supply a fair estimate of the 
whole, and by which we may judge how large a proportion of 
the despised and unregarded Saxon will, in the pages of Milton 
and Shakespeare, be coeval with the great globe itself. 

15. Tha ongan se l wisdom sin gan, 2 Then began the wisdom to sing, 

and giddode thus : and chanted thus ; 

Thonne seo sunne 3 on wadrura When the sun in serene 

heqfone beorhlost scineth* thonne heaven brightest shinetk, then 

atheoshiath calle steorran, 5 fortham become- dark all the-stars, because 

1 Thi& answers to the Greek 6, r}, to, and is thus declined . Nom. se, seo, thaet; 
Gen. thas, thaere, thas ; Dat. tham, thaere, tham ; Ace. thone, tha, thcet. Plural, 
Nom. tha ; Gen. thcera ; Dat. tham ; Ace. tha. 

3 An, ean, gan, are the terminations of the infinitive mood ; as sing-an, Iuf-ian (to 
love), giddi-gan (to sing). 

* The sun in northern mythology is feminine, being the wife of Tuisco. 

4 Ast,. est, ist or yst, and ost, are the sign3 of the superlative, corrupted from aer 
(before), sest (first). 

5 Nom. plurals principally ended in as, an, e. The second and third are obsolete ; 



INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 



XXI 



the heora behortnes ne beoth* nan 
beorhtnessfor 7 hire. 
Thonne smylte blaweth suthan 
westan wind, thonne weaxath* 
swithe wrathe 9 feldes 10 blosman, 
ac thonne se stearca u wi/nd cymth 
northern eastan ; thonne toweorpth 12 
he swithe wrathe thaere rosan wlite ; 
Swa oft thone to smylton see thces 
northern wynds yst onslyrrth. 
Eala that nan wuht nisfceste 
stondendes vi weorces a wuniende 13 
on worulde. 



that their brightness be-eth no 
brightness for her. 
When gently bloweth south 
west wind, then wax (grow) 
very speedily field's blossoms ; 
but when the stark wind cometh 
north east, then warpeth (destroyeth) 
he very speedily the roses' beauty. 
So oft the too tranquil sea of the 
north wind tempest stirreth. 
Alas that no thing is of-fast 
standing work dwelling 
in world ! 



16. It was not only by his translation of Boethius that Alfred 
endeavoured to elevate the minds, while he improved and polished 
the language of his people. He "did into Saxon," Orosius's 
Abridgment of the History of the World, inserting from his 
own pen a sketch of the German nations, as well as an account 
of a voyage towards the north pole, by a Norwegian navigator, 
from whom he had himself received the details. He also trans- 
lated the Ecclesiastical History of Bede; an illustrious monu- 
ment of his talent and assiduity. And the last enemy is said to 
have found him employed on a version of the book of Psalms, — 
an end worthy of such a life. He had, in the space of less than 
twenty years, achieved for his country a moral regeneration. 
Order was established, law restored, learning re-animated, reli- 
gion both enjoined by authority and commended by example. 
When we consider that the whole works of Alfred were produced 



but the second still remains in oxen, children, men, hosen ; anciently daghtren and 
eustren. So kine is formed from cu-en. 

6 The regular form of the verb substantive, of which the Saxons had two — Ic eom, 
I am ; and Ic beo, I be. 

7 By reason of. 

8 Ath or eth was the third person plural termination ; as we, ye, they loveth 
(lufi-ath). 

9 Early. " Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies." — Milton. This word is 
the origin of rather, adv. 

10 This is the Saxon genitive, still in use, and in the earlier poets always a dissyllable ; 
as kingis crown, mannys love. Evidently the same with Greek oq, and Latin is. 

11 Stack, strong. 

12 From to-weorpian. To, be, ge, and on, are common prefixes to verbs, not affecting 
their signification; as thincan, or ge-thincan, to think ; seon, or ge-seon, to see; styran, 
or on-styran, to stir ; &c. 

15 Ande, or ende, now euphonized into ing ; as, stondende, standing ; wuniende, 
dwelling ; &c. 



XX11 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

within the brief interval of twelve years, (for he had entered on 
his thirty-ninth year before he acquired the knowledge of the 
Latin language), we are lost in admiration at the thought, not 
only of his talent and diligence, but of his patience, patriotism, 
and piety. In thus improving his people, he felt that he was 
serving God ; and if his memory shines among men as the bright- 
ness of the firmament, who shall deny him the more enduring 
glory of those who turn many to righteousness, and who are even 
as the stars for ever and ever ? 

17. It is unnecessary to trace the pure Saxon below the age 
of Alfred, after which period it gained nothing in sweetness, 
and perhaps lost something in strength. The most complete 
poetical production extant in this language is the Romance of 
Beowulf, a kind of Saxon Iliad, which has been recently edited 
by an accomplished Saxon scholar, and is further remarkable as 
being the earliest composition of an heroic kind in any verna- 
cular language of Europe. It ' is characterized by the usual 
strain of Saxon sentiment, representing the drunken carousal 
as the chief of joys, and courage in the field as the first of 
duties, and with scarcely a recognition of the existence of a 
second sex. If to be poetical is to be imaginative, man is never 
likely to become so till he has learned to write upon woman. 
The Saxons never learnt this, and therefore their poetry 
during five centuries is nearly at par, and would have continued 
so even to the present hour had they confined themselves to the 
congenial themes of the " play of swords" (gaudia certaminis), or 
the joys of the bowl. The reason of this may be sought in 
nature : they who delight in bloodshed will ever be the few, 
and they who degrade intelligence by intoxication will rarely 
be the many; and verses only of universal interest can command 
universal attention, — "Love rules the court, the camp, the 
grove," and where is love without woman, and what is poetry 
without love ? 

18. The second stage or period of the English Language is 
that of the Intermediate Diction, extending from A.D. 1100, to 
about A.D. 1340. On the accession of the Conqueror to the 
throne of Alfred, though the Norman French, after his example, 
was spoken at court, and employed by his authority in all judi- 
cial proceedings, yet the Anglo-Saxon continued long to be the 
dialect of the common people. The efforts of each to expel the 
other were ineffectual, and ended in a kind of compromise or 



INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. XX111 

union. The Norman stalk was grafted on the Saxon root, and 
the first product of their union was a kind of intermediate 
diction, neither wholly Saxon nor altogether Norman. The 
language at this period is compared by Mr. Campbell to "the 
new insect stirring its wings before it has shaken off its aurelia v- 
state." There is in this exquisite comparison not more of poetry 
than of truth. But it fails in one point — the struggle of the embryo 
was of unnaturally long duration, for it was aided by no sunshine 
of royal favour. Of William the Conqueror it is recorded, that 
after many ineffectual attempts to master the uncouth Saxon, he 
brought his studies to an abrupt termination by breaking his tutor's 
head in a paroxysm of impatience and disgust. William Rufus 
occupied the whole of his time and thoughts in two pursuits most 
unfavourable to literature, amassing treasures and shooting wild 
deer. Henry Beauclerc, scholar as he was, for that very reason, 
as well as his pride of Norman birth, looked contemptuously upon 
the churlish Saxon, and therefore was little better than a bandit 
upon a throne. We must advance far into the reign of Henry 
II., before we can find any composition in the vernacular tongue. 
Encouragement was indeed given by the two first Henries to 
literature, but it was to Norman literature. Robert Wace, a 
native of Jersey, was born about A.D. 1124, and is supposed to 
have attached himself at an early period of life to the court of 
the English Monarch. In 1155 he finished his Romance (so 
called because written in the vulgar, or Roman tongue,) of 
Brut, or Brutus, which is founded upon the chronicle of 
Geoffry of Monmouth. This book was translated by Layamon, a 
priest of Ernelye upon Severn, who flourished about A.D. 1200, 
into that intermediate diction, which is made up of the rough 
elliptical Saxon, with a slight intermixture of the Norman 
freedom. The change, however, is a change of manner, rather 
than of structure or expression. The dialect in which Layamon 
wrote is little, if at all, more intelligible than that of the Saxon, 
but the style is less encumbered with periphrases ; the ideas are 
increased, and the expletives or compounds are diminished ; the 
narrative becomes more easy, the cadence more flowing, and in 
parts there is more of poetic elevation. At all events, the 
muse is no longer mounted upon stilts ; the insect flutters, 
though unable to raise itself from the ground, and motion is at 
least natural, however it may be cumbrous and slow. 



XXIV 



INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 



19. The following specimen of this writer is taken from Mr. 
Sharon Turner's "History of England during the Middle 
Ages," vol. v., p. 213. The subject is Arthur's Dream: — 



Tha hit waes dai a margen, 
And dugethe gon sturien. 
Arthur tha up aras, 
And strehte his armes ; 
He aras up and adun sat 
Swilc he weore swithe seoc. 

Tha acede hine an vair cniht 
Lauerd, hu havest thou waran to-niht ? 

Arthur tha answarede, 
A mode him was unethe. 

To niht a mine slepe, 
Ther ich lay on hure 
Me imette a sweven, 
Thervore ich ful sare am. 
Me imette that men me hof 
Uppen are halle. 
Tha hall ich gon bistriden, 
Swilc ich wolde riden. 
All tha lond tha ich ah ; 
All ich therover sah, 
And Walwain sat bivoren me ; 
Mi sweord he bar an honde. 

Tha cam Moddred faren there 
Mid unimete folke. 
He bar in his honde 
Ane wiax stronge. 
He bogon to heowen 
Hardliche swithe 
And tha postes forheon alle 
Tha heolden up tha halle. 

Ther ich isah Wenhever eke, 
Wim monmen leofvest me. 
Al there muche halle rof 
Mid hire hondeden heo to droh. 
Tha halle gon to halden, 
And ich hald to grunden, 
That mi riht arm to brat. 

Tha seide Modred, Have that. 
Adun veol that halle ; 
And Walwain gon to nalle, 
And feol a there eorthe, 
His armes breeken beithe. 



Then it was day in morning, 
And nobles began to stir. 
Arthur then tip arose 
And stretched his arms. 
He arose up and adown sat, 
As though he were very sick. 

Then asked him a true knight, 
Lord, how hast thou slept to-night? 

Arthur then answered, 
And mind to him was uneasy. 

To-night in my sleep, 
Where I lay on bed, 
I dreamed a dream, 
Therefore I full sorry am. 
I dreamt that men me heaved 
Upon the hall ; 
The hall I began to bestride, 
Like as I would ride. 
All the land then I had, 
All I there over saw. 
And Walwain sat before me, 
My sword he bare in hand. 

Then came Modred to go there, 
With innumerable people. 
He bare in his hand 
A war-axe strong 
He began to hew 
Very hardly, 

And the posts uphewed all 
That held up the hall. 

There I saw Guenlever also, 
Of women dearest to me ; 
All that great hill's roof, 
With her hands she down drew, 
The hill I went to hold, 
And I held it to ground, 
That my right arm brake. 

Then said Modred, Take that. 
Down fell the hall, 
And Walwayn went headlong, 
And fell to the earth, 
His arms broken both. 



20. This extract may be considered as affording no very 
exalted specimen of improved feeling, or of elevated diction ; 
but when we take into our reckoning the state of language at 



INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. XXV 

this period, the paucity of readers, and the little encouragement 
which compositions in the vernacular dialect received (for the 
people could not appreciate, and the nobles did not understand 
them), we shall be disposed to attach the greater importance 
to the work of Layamon, and to award an increased meed of 
approbation to its author. So far as we can estimate his motives 
in undertaking this work, they must have been truly patriotic. 
He could not have engaged in it with any view of gratifying the 
learned, to whom the Latin work of Geoffrey of Monmouth would 
be accessible, and far more agreeable ; still less could he be 
actuated by a desire of conciliating royal approbation and 
patronage, for the Roman translation of Wace was the exclusive 
favourite of the monarch and his courtiers, and there were as 
yet very few, if any, native born Englishmen who enjoyed any 
offices of honour or emolument. We may, I think, fairly 
ascribe to the Priest of Erneleye-upon- Severn the honourable 
motive of regarding, beyond all personal considerations, the 
intellectual improvement of his countrymen. We may reason- 
ably assign to him that reward, which he could receive from 
posterity alone. And when we look upon the extent and 
elevation to which English literature has now attained, it is 
no small honour to the name of Layamon, that he laid the first 
stone of an edifice destined to endure the shock of ages, and 
as we fondly hope, and confidently believe, to be coeval with 
time itself. 

21. An interval of fourscore years intervened between Lay- 
amon and the next writer of name and note whom we are to 
consider; during which long period it is evident that the chrysalis 
of the English language had bestirred itself into the first advance 
towards a state of vivification. Warton indeed has published 
several short pieces, written in very tolerable English, to which he 
assigns an intermediate date. We shall, however, consider them 
as posterior in origin to the authenticated production of Robert of 
Gloucester, who versified, or rather put into rhyme, the fables of 
Geoffrey of Monmouth, about the year 1280. # I say put into 
rhyme, because the wild and romantic legends have often a much 
more poetical air in Geoffrey's prose than in the lazy lumbering 
doggrel of his translator. Warton does not speak too strongly 

* Robert of Gloucester (wrote) after the year 1297, since he alludes to the canon- 
ization of St. Louis, Hallam, § 50. But if so, he must have been considerably advanced 
in years, for he saw the eclipse in the year 12t>4, and was then a man grown. 

C 



XXVI INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

when lie affirms, that of art and imagination this rhyming 
chronicle is wholly destitute. We must, however, accord some 
credit to Robert for his design, if not for the manner of its 
execution, actuated, as he unquestionably was, by the desire of 
rendering intelligible to his countrymen, (to whom the dialect 
of Layamon had become nearly as obsolete, # as the language of 
Robert himself is to us) a part of their history, now considered 
rather apocryphal, but in the authenticity of which he probably 
reposed the most implicit confidence. In his own age it is 
probable from his provincial designation, for we know of no other, 
that he enjoyed a very distinguished reputation, and if he has 
not preserved it to our day it is no fault of his laborious editor, 
Hearne, who says that he is to be as much respected as ever 
Ennius was among the Romans, being, like him, the original 
genius of national poetry. Fuller, however, with his usual 
quaint antithesis, pointedly observes, " They speak kindly who 
term him a rhymer, while such speak courteously who call 
him a poet." 

22. Of Robert's poetry, however, the limits of this prefatory 
address forbid any lengthened quotation, and we must be con- 
tent with referring our readers to the quatrain exhibited in 
the biographical sketch of Alfred, in order that we may devote 
a larger space in our concluding observations to Robert de 
Brunne, who flourished about A. D. 1340, and is characterized 
by the learned and judicious historian of the Anglo-Saxons, as 
the " first of our poets who wrote in a vernacular style which is 
at all readable now." Robert of Gloucester abounds in the use of 
words of French extraction, of which one will be found occurring 
in almost every verse ; Robert de Brunne is remarkably free 
from this prevailing affectation of his age ; but the Saxon in- 
flexions are almost entirely disused by him, while the structure 
of his sentences, and even the rhythm and cadence of his verse, 
approximate closely to the present English. Warton, in his 
History of English Poetry, has not done justice to Robert de 
Brunne, whom he pronounces to be little more of a poet than 
Robert of Gloucester. Ritson, however, notwithstanding his 
antipathy to the clerical profession under every form, accords to 
the good old monk the praise of having contributed to form a 

* A great quantity of French had flowed into the language since the loss of Nor- 
mandy. The Anglo-Saxon inflexions, terminations, and orthography, had also 
undergone considerable change. 



INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. XXV11 

style, to teach expression, and to polish his native tongue, in a 
greater degree than any succeeding writer. His work is a 
Translation of the Manuel des Peches, — " the Boke which men 
clepen the Handling of Sin ; " a title, it must be owned, suffici- 
ently unattractive. The old rhymer, however, illustrates his 
monkish morality by tales, some of which are not destitute of 
a rude inartificial humour which has much of the grotesque, 
and not a little of the comic. One specimen of these will suffice, 
which will clearly illustrate his style, if it does not greatly 
commend his wit. 

TALE OF PERS THE MISER. 

One Peter or Pers, was a miser and an usurer, of whom a traveller laid a wager, that 
hard-hearted as he was, something might he got from him by begging. 

Pers was 1 okerere 

And was 2 swythe covetous 
And a 3 nygun and avarous, 

And gadered pens 4 into store, 
As okerers doun every hore. s 

Befel hyt so, upon a day, 
That pore men sat yn the way 
And spred her hatren on her barme, 8 
A gens the sonne that was warme ; 
And reckened the custome houses echone 7 
At whych they had gode, 8 and at wych none. 

As they spak of many what 
Came Pers forth yn thar gat, 9 
Than each one that sat and stode, 
Her comth Pers that never dyd gode. 
Eachone said to other jangland, 10 
They take never gode at Pers hand ; 
Ne noun pore man never that have, 
Coude he never so weyl crave. 
One of them began to sey, 
A wajour dar 11 y with yow lay, 
That y shall have some gode at him 
Be he never so gryl, 12 ne grym. 

To that wajour they graunted alle, 
To gyve hym a gyft, gyf so myght befalle. 
Thys man upsterte, and toke the gate 13 
Tyl he come at Pers gate. 
As he stode style and bode the guede, 1 * 
One came with an asse, charged wyth brede. 15 
That yche 16 brede Pers had boght, 
And to hys hous should hyt be broght. 

1 Usurer. a Very, Sax. s Xiggard. 4 Pence. 6 Hour. 6 Spread 
their vestments on their bosoms. " Each one. s Goods. 9 Way. 10 Chat- 
tering. u Dare. 12 An^ry. ,3 Way. u Uttered his petition. ls Bread. 
16 Same. 

c 2 



XXV111 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

He ' sagh Pers come ther wythal, 
The pore thought, ' now aske y shal. 
Y aske the, 2 Sun, gode fur 3 cbarite 
Pers gif thy wyl be. 
Pers stode, and loked on him 
4 Felunlicke with ygen 5 grim ! 
He stouped down to seke a stone, 
But as hap was, than fonde he none. 
For the stone he toke a lofe 
And at the pore man him drafe. 
The pore man bent 6 yt up, belyve, 
And was thereof ful ferly 7 blithe. 
To his felawes faste he ran — 
Lo, he seyd, what y have 
Of Pers a gifte, so God me save." 

24. Of the same class with Robert de Brunne, and nearly con- 
temporary with him, we find another ecclesiastic, — a class of 
men who have at least the merit of contributing most largely 
towards the improvement and enrichment of the English lan- 
guage, as well as the popularity of English poetry. Richard 
Rolle, a hermit of the order of St. Augustine, resided in or 
near the nunnery of Hampole, in the vicinity of Doncaster, about 
1340. The place of his residence has been confounded with his 
name, and he is sometimes called Richard of Hampole, or Richard 
Hampole. He wrote expressly for the benefit of those who 
could only understand English, a poem called the " Prikke of 
Conscience;" and assuredly one who was inclined to do pen- 
ance, for indulging too far the love of sacred song might find 
abundant self-mortification in mastering the worthy hermit's 
poem, which must have extended, when complete, to forty or 
fifty thousand lines. The short specimen which we have an- 
nexed, however, will suffice to indicate the state of the lan- 
guage, with which alone we are concerned, and which had already 
developed the sterling material, which the touch of Chaucer 
would convert into silver and that of Shakespeare into gold. 
Rolle's muse was portentously prolific : and Ritson has enume- 
rated his literary offspring, both poetical and prosaic, with an 
arithmetical precision which can hardly fail to provoke a smile. - 
Their titles are, " Ten Commandments ;" " Seven Virtues op- 
posed to seven Vices ;" " Seven Works of Mercy ;" " Five 
Bodily Senses;" "Five Spiritual ditto;" " Three Theological 
Virtues;" " Four Cardinal Duties;" "Eight Beatitudes;" 

1 Saw. 2 Son. 3 Pourcharite, (Fr.) 4 Felon-like. 5 Eyes. 6 Seized. 
7 Suddenly. . • 



INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. XXIX 

" Nine Lessons on Tribulation/' &c. &c. &c. We append a 
specimen both of his poetry and his prose. 

DESCRIPTION OF HEAVEN. 

Ther is lyfe withute ony deth, 

And ther is youth withoute ony elde : 

And ther is alle manner welthe to welde : 

And ther is reste withoute ony travaille : — 

And ther is pees withoute ony strife, 

And ther is alle mannere likynge of lyf ; 

And ther is bright somer ever to se, 

And ther is nevere wynter in that cuntree ; 

And ther is more worshipe and honour, 

Than evere hadde kynge other emperour. 

And ther is grete melodie ofaungeles' songe, 

And ther is preysing him amonge. 

And ther is all maner frendshipe that may be, 

And ther is evere perfect love and charite ; 

And ther is wisdom without/<%e, 

And ther is honeste without vilenye : 

All these a man may joyes of hevene call, 

Ac yutte the most sovereyn joy of alle, 

Is the sight of Goddes bright/ace, 

In wham resteth alle manere grace. 

THE SEVENTH OF THE TWELVE PROFITS OF TRIBULACION. 

The sevynth profet of tribulation is, that it spredith abroad or opyny th thyne hert to 
receyve the grace of God : for golde with many strokys of the hammyr spredyth abrode 
a pece of golde or of silver, to make a vessel for to put in wyne or preciouse liquore. And 
considre, as the more preciouse metalle is more ductible and obeynge to the strokys of the 
goldsmyth, so" t the more preciouse and meke herte is more pacient in tribulacion. And 
alle'thogh the sharp stroke of tribulaoion turmenteth the, yet comforte the ; for the gold- 
smyth, Alle-mighty God, holdeth the hammer of tribulacion in his hand, and knoweth full 
well what thou maist suffir, and mesureth his smytynge after thi frell nature : he wille 
not thou be than as metalle in a * boystrous gobett, without spredynge of shape, as hard 
hertis bene without techynge. He wolle thou not be as an old friynge pan, that for 
frete of a litell stroke al to breste in manny's brekynge. 

26. Here, then, for the present, our task must cease ; for here 
we have arrived at the third period of the English language ; 
that in which it is nolonger incipient but progressive. The 
prose of Sir John Mabdevil, one of the most romancing and 
therefore the most amusing of travellers, though appearing 
within twenty years after the decease of Richard Rolle, exhibits 
almost as great an advance upon the worthy hermit's "Profit of 

* From the Welsh bwyst . . buys'.res 



XXX INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

Tribulation," as the poetry of Gower and of Chaucer upon his 
" Prikke of Conscience." Sir John tells 

"Of most disastrous chances, 
Most moving accidents, by flood and fire ; 
Of hair-breadth scapes — 

of antres vast, and deserts idle ; 

Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven. 

And if he did not proceed to tell also 

" Of the cannibals that each other eat ; 
The anthropophagi ; and men whose heads 
Do grow between their shoulders," 

it was not because he feared that his drafts upon the credulity 
of his readers would not be duly honoured, but simply because 
he preferred to speculate in the supernatural ; — " the vale clepen 
the Vale of Devils, wherein is a head of a visage of a devil 
bodily, full horrible and dreadful to see." But the work which 
exhibits the most clear and satisfactory view of the state of the 
language at this era, and to which we would refer primarily, is 
the translation of the Bible by WicklifFe, which must be dated 
some years anterior to the death of this great man, in 1384. 
Designed for common use and general circulation, it is written, 
as might have been expected, in peculiarly pure Saxon, without 
much intermixture of those classical derivatives in which Chaucer 
so generally abounds. The antique version may occasionally 
excite a smile by its simplicity, as when we read of Matthew 
sitting in a " tol-boothe ;" and in the book of Dedis (Acts), 
of the magistrates sending " cacche-pollis " to bring Paul and 
Barnabas out of prison ; and of Paul being kept in the " moot- 
hall " of Herod ; and the prodigal son " sent into a toune to feed 
swine," and coveting " to fille his wombe of the coddis that the 
hoggis eeten." But there are many passages in which the stately 
simplicity of holy writ is rather illustrated than encumbered by 
the venerable garb of antiquity in which it is arrayed ; an ex- 
ample of which we will cite, and it shall be the last. 

" Ihesus wente in to a citee, that is clepid Naym : and hise 
disciplis and ful gret puple wente with Him. And whanne He 
cam nygh to the gate of the citee, lo, the sone of a womman that 
had no mo children was borun out deed, and this was a widowe, 
and myche puple of the citee was with hir. And whanne the 
Lord Ihesus hadde seyn hir, he hadde reuthe on hir, and seyde to 



INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. XXXI 

hir, Nyle thou wepe. And He came nigh and touehide the 
beere, and thei that baren, stoden ; and He seyde, Yonge man, 
I seye to thee, rise up. And he that was deed sat up agen, 
and bigan to speke, and He gaf him to his moder. And drede 
took alle men, and thei niagnifyiden God, and seyden, For a 
gret Profete is risen among us, and for God hath visitid his 
puple." — Luke vii. 

27. The age of Chaucer and of Gower is an era in the history 
of the English language. Spenser, than whom none could be 
more competent to judge, characterizes the former as 

" Dan Chaucer, well of English undefiled, 
On Fame's eternal head-roll worthy to he filed." 

And Caxton, whose claim to respectful attention is founded no 
less on his authorship than his typography, styles Chaucer " the 
worshipful father and first founder and embellisher of ornate 
eloquence in our language." The proof of this will be found in all 
writers who have preceded him, and many who have come after. 
Of Spenser, who thus expresses his sense of Chaucer's merits, it 
is enough to say that he exhibits in his own numbers a language 
at least approaching to perfection. Xor can we more appro- 
priately close this brief and imperfect sketch of the history and 
progress of the English language, than in the words of Dr. 
Johnson, who observes : " From the authors who rose in the 
time of Elizabeth, a speech might be formed adequate to all the 
purposes of use and elegance. If the language of theology were 
extracted from Hooker and the translation of the Bible ; the 
terms of natural knowledge from Bacon ; the phrases of policy, 
war, and navigation, from Raleigh ; the dialect of poetry from 
Spenser and Sidney; and the diction of common life from 
Shakespeare, few ideas would be lost to mankind for want of 
English words in which they might be expressed." 



LECTURES 



RHETORIC AND BELLES LETTRES. 



L EC TURE I. 

INTRODUCTION. 

One of the most distinguished privileges which Providence has 
conferred upon mankind, is the power of communicating their 
thoughts to one another. Destitute of this power, reason # 
would be a solitary, and, in some measure, an unavailing princi- 
ple. Speech is the great instrument by which man becomes ^JL. 
beneficial to man : and it is to the intercourse and transmission A^ 
of thought, by means of speech, that we are chiefly indebted 
for the improvement of thought itself. Small are the advances 
which a single unassisted individual can make towards perfecting 
any of his powers. What we call human reason, is not the 
effort or ability of one, so much as it is the result of the 
reason of many, arising from lights mutually communicated, in 
consequence of discourse and writing. 

It is obvious, then, that writing and discourse are objects ^ 
entitled to the highest attention. Whether the influence of the ^ 
speaker, or the entertainment of the hearer, be consulted; 
whether utility or pleasure be the principal aim in view, we are 
prompted, by the strongest motives, to study how we may com- 
municate our thoughts to one another with most advantage. 
Accordingly we find, that in almost every nation, as soon as 
language had extended itself beyond that scanty communication 
which was requisite for the supply of men's necessities, the im- 
provement of discourse began to attract regard. In the language 
even of rude uncultivated tribes, we can trace some attention to 
the grace and force of those expressions which they used, when 
they sought to persuade or to affect. They were early sensible 
of a beauty in discourse, and endeavoured to give it certain 
decorations which experience had taught them it was capable of 
receiving, long before the study of those decorations was formed 
into a regular art. 



2 INTRODUCTION. [LECT. I. 

But, among nations in a civilized state, no art has been 
cultivated with more care, than that of language, style, and 
composition. The attention paid to it may, indeed, be assumed 
as one mark of the progress of society towards its most improved 
period. For, according as society improves and flourishes, men 
acquire more influence over one another by means of reasoning 
and discourse : and in proportion as that influence is felt to 
enlarge, it must follow as a natural consequence, that they will 
bestow more care upon the methods of expressing their concep- 
tions with propriety and eloquence. Hence we find, that in all 
the polished nations of Europe, this study has been treated as 
highly important, and has possessed a considerable place in every 
plan of liberal education. 

Indeed, when the arts of speech and writing are mentioned, I 
am sensible that prejudices against them are apt to rise in the 
minds of many. A sort of art is immediately thought of, that 
is ostentatious and deceitful ; the minute and trifling study of 
words alone ; the pomp of expression ; the studied fallacies of 
rhetoric ; ornament substituted in the room of use. We need 
not wonder, that, under such imputations, all study of discourse 
as an art should have suffered in the opinion of men of under- 
standing ; and I am far from denying, that rhetoric and criticism 
have sometimes been so managed as to tend to the corruption, 
rather than to the improvement, of good taste and true eloquence. 
But sure it is equally possible to apply the principles of reason 
and good sense to this art, as to any other that is cultivated 
among men. If the following Lectures have any merit, it will 
consist in an endeavour to substitute the application of these 
principles in the place of artificial and scholastic rhetoric ; in an 
endeavour to explode false ornament, to direct attention more 
towards substance than show, to recommend good sense as the 
foundation of all good composition, and simplicity as essential to 
all true ornament. 

When entering on the subject I may be allowed, on this occa- 
sion, to suggest a few thoughts concerning the importance and 
advantages of such studies, and the rank they are entitled to 
possess in academical education.* I am under no temptation, for 
this purpose, of extolling their importance at the expense of any 
other department of science. On the contrary, the study of 
Rhetoric and Belles Lettres supposes and requires a proper 
acquaintance with the rest of the liberal arts. It embraces them 
all within its circle, and recommends them to the highest regard. 
The first care of all such as wish either to write with reputation, 

* The Author was the first who read Lectures on this subject in the University of 
Edinburgh. He began with reading them in a private character in the year 1759. In 
the following year he was chosen Professor of Rhetoric by the Magistrates and Town-coun- 
cil of Edinburgh ; and, in 1762, His Majesty was pleased to erect and endow a Profes- 
sion of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres in that University ; and the Author was appointed 
the first Regius Professor. 



LECT. I.] INTRODUCTION. 3 

or to speak in public so as to command attention, must be, to 
extend their knowledge ; to lay in a rich store of ideas relating 
to those subjects of which the occasions of life may call them to 
discourse or to write. Hence, among the ancients, it was a 
fundamental principle, and frequently inculcated, " Quod omni- 
bus disciplinis et artibus debet esse instructus orator ; " that the 
orator ought to be an accomplished scholar, and conversant in 
every part of learning. It is indeed impossible to contrive an \ 
art, and very pernicious it were if it could be contrived, which ( 
should give the stamp of merit to any composition rich or 
splendid in expression, but barren or erroneous in thought. 
They are the wretched attempts towards an art of this kind 
which have so often disgraced oratory, and debased it below its 
true standard. The graces of composition have been employed 
to disguise or to supply the want of matter ; and the temporary 
applause of the ignorant has been courted, instead of the lasting 
approbation of the discerning. But such imposture can never 
maintain its ground long. Knowledge and science must furnish 
the materials that form the body and substance of any valuable 
composition. Rhetoric serves to add the polish ; and we know 
that none but firm and solid bodies can be polished well. 

Of those who peruse the following Lectures, some, in conse- 
quence either of their profession, or of their prevailing inclination, 
may have the view of being employed in composition, or in 
public speaking. Others, without any prospect of this kind, may 
wish only to improve their taste with respect to writing and 
discourse, and to acquire principles which will enable them to 
judge for themselves in that part of literature called the Belles 
Lettres. 

With respect to the former, such as may have occasion to 
communicate their sentiments to the public, it is abundantly 
clear that some preparation of study is requisite for the end 
which they have in view. To speak or to write perspicuously 
and agreeably, with purity, with grace and strength, are attain- 
ments of the utmost consequence to all who propose, either by 
speech or writing, to address the public. For without being 
master of those attainments, no man can do justice to his own 
conceptions ; but how rich soever he may be in knowledge and 
in good sense, will be able to avail himself less of those treasures, 
than such as possess not half his store, but who can display what 
they possess with more propriety. Neither are these attainments 
of that kind for which they are indebted to nature merely. Na- 
ture has, indeed, conferred upon some a very favourable distinction 
in this respect, beyond others. But in these, as in most other 
talents she bestows, she has left much to be wrought out by 
every man's own industry. So conspicuous have been the effects of 
study and improvement in every part of eloquence ; such 
remarkable examples have appeared of persons surmounting, by 
their diligence, the disadvantages of the most untoward nature ; 



4 INTRODUCTION. [LECT. I. 

that among the learned it has long been a contested, and remains 
still an undecided point, whether nature or art confer most to- 
wards excelling in writing and discourse. 

With respect to the manner in which art can most effectually 
furnish assistance for such a purpose, there may be diversity of 
opinions. I by no means pretend to say that mere rhetorical 
rules, how just soever, are sufficient to form an orator. Suppos- 
ing natural genius to be favourable, more by a great deal will 
depend upon private application and study, than upon any 
system of instruction that is capable of being publicly commu- 
nicated. But at the same time, though rules and instructions 
cannot do all that is requisite, they may, however, do much that 
is of real use. They cannot, it is true, inspire genius ; but they 
can direct and assist it. They cannot remedy barrenness ; but 
they may correct redundancy. They point out proper models 
for imitation. They bring into view the chief beauties which 
ought to be studied, and the principal faults that ought to be 
avoided ; and thereby tend to enlighten taste, and to lead genius 
from unnatural deviations, into its proper channel. What would 
not avail for the production of great excellencies, may at least 
serve to prevent the commission of considerable errors. 

All that regards the study of eloquence and composition, merits 
the higher attention upon this account, that it is intimately con- 
nected with the improvement of our intellectual powers. For 
I must be allowed to say, that when we are employed after a 
proper manner, in the study of composition, we are cultivating 
reason itself. True rhetoric and sound logic are very nearly 
allied. The study of arranging and expressing our thoughts 
with propriety, teaches to think, as well as to speak accurately. 
By putting our sentiments into words, we always conceive them 
more distinctly. Every one who has the slightest acquaintance 
with composition knows, that when he expresses himself ill on 
any subject, when his arrangement is loose, and his sentences 
become feeble, the defects of his style can, almost on every 
occasion, be traced back to his indistinct conception of the sub- 
ject; so close is the connexion between thoughts, and the words 
in which they are clothed. 

The study of composition, important in itself at all times, has 
acquired additional importance from the taste and manners of 
the present age. It is an age wherein improvements, in every 
part of science, have been prosecuted with ardour. To all 
the liberal arts much attention has been paid ; and to none more 
than to the beauty of language, and the grace and elegance of 
every kind of writing. The public ear is become refined. It 
will not easily bear what is slovenly and incorrect. Every 
author must aspire to some merit in expression, as well as in 
sentiment, if he would not incur the danger of being neglected 
and despised. 

I will not deny that the love of minute elegance, and attention 



LECT. I.] INTRODUCTION. 5 

to inferior ornaments of composition, may at present have en- 
grossed too great a degree of the public regard. It is indeed 
my opinion, that we lean to this extreme ; often more careful of 
polished style, than of storing it with thought. Yet hence 
arises a new reason for the study of just and proper composition. 
If it be requisite not to be deficient in elegance or ornament in 
times when they are in such high estimation, it is still more re- 
quisite to attain the power of distinguishing false ornament from 
true, in order to prevent our being carried away by that torrent 
of false and frivolous taste, which never fails, when it is preva- 
lent, to sweep along with it the raw and the ignorant. They who 
have never studied eloquence in its principles, nor have been 
trained to attend to the genuine and manly beauties of good 
writing, are always ready to be caught by the mere glare of 
language : and when they come to speak in public, or to compose, 
have no other standard on which to form themselves, except 
what chances to be fashionable and popular, how corrupted 
soever and erroneous that may be. 

But as there are many who have no such objects as either 
composition or public speaking in view, let us next consider 
what advantages may be derived by them, from such studies as 
form the subject of these Lectures. To them rhetoric is not so 
much a practical art as a speculative science ; and the same in- 
structions which assist others in composing, will assist them in 
discerning and relishing the beauties of composition. Whatever 
enables genius to execute well, will enable taste to criticise justly. 

When we name criticising, prejudices may perhaps arise, of 
the same kind with those which I mentioned before with respect 
to rhetoric. As rhetoric has been sometimes thought to signify 
nothing more than the scholastic study of words, and phrases, and 
tropes, so criticism has been considered as merely the art of finding 
faults ; as frigid application of certain technical terms, by means 
of which persons are taught to cavil and censure in a learned 
manner. But this is the criticism of pedants only. True criti- 
cism is a liberal and humane art. It is the offspring of good 
sense and refined taste. It aims at acquiring a just discernment 
of the real merit of authors. It promotes a lively relish of their 
beauties, while it preserves us from that blind and implicit 
veneration which would confound their beauties and faults in 
our esteem. It teaches us, in a word, to admire and to blame with 
judgment, and not to follow the crowd blindly. 

In an age when works of genius and literature are so fre- 
quently the subjects of discourse, when every one erects himself 
into a judge, and when we can hardly mingle in polite society 
without bearing some share in such discussions ; studies of this 
kind, it is not to be doubted, will appear to derive part of their 
importance from the use to which they may be applied in fur- 
nishing materials for those fashionable topics of discourse, and 
thereby enabling us to support a proper rank in social life. 



6 INTRODUCTION. [LECT. I. 

But I should be sorry if we could not rest the merit of such 
studies on somewhat of solid and intrinsical use, independent of 
appearance and show. The exercise of taste and of sound criti- 
cism, is in truth one of the most improving employments of the 
understanding. To apply the principles of good sense to com- 
position and discourse ; to examine what is beautiful, and why it is 
so; to employ ourselves in distinguishing accurately between 
the specious and the solid, between affected and natural orna- 
ment, must certainly improve us not a little in the most valuable 
part of all philosophy, the philosophy of human nature. For 
such dispositions are very intimately connected with the know- 
ledge of ourselves. They necessarily lead us to reflect on the 
operations of the imagination, and the movements of the heart ; 
and increase our acquaintance with some of the most refined 
feelings which belong to our frame. 

Logical and ethical disquisitions move in a higher sphere, and 
are conversant with objects of a more severe kind ; the progress 
of the understanding in its search after knowledge, and the 
direction of the will in the proper pursuit of good. They point 
out to man the improvement of his nature as an intelligent 
being ; and his duties as the subject of moral obligation. Belles 
Lettres and Criticism chiefly consider him as a being endowed 
with those powers of taste and imagination, which were intended 
to embellish his mind, and to supply him with rational and use- 
ful entertainment. They open a field of investigation peculiar 
to themselves. All that relates to beauty, harmony, grandeur, 
and elegance ; all that can soothe the mind, gratify the fancy, or 
move the affections, belongs to their province. They present 
human nature under a different aspect from that which it 
assumes when viewed by other sciences. They bring to light 
various springs of action, which, without their aid, might have 
passed unobserved ; and which, though of a delicate nature, fre- 
quently exert a powerful influence on several departments of 
human life. 

Such studies have also this peculiar advantage, that they 
exercise our reason without fatiguing it. They lead to en- 
quiries acute, but not painful; profound, but not dry nor 
abstruse. They strew flowers in the path of science ; and while 
they keep the mind bent in some degree, and active, they relieve 
it, at the same time, from that more toilsome labour to which it 
must submit in the acquisition of necessary erudition, or the 
investigation of abstract truth. 

The cultivation of taste is farther recommended by the happy 
effects which it naturally tends to produce on human life. The 
most busy man, in the most active sphere, cannot be always 
occupied by business. Men of serious professions cannot always 
be on the stretch of serious thought. Neither can the most gay 
and flourishing situations of fortune afford any man the power 
of filling all his hours with pleasure. Life must always 



LECT. I.J INTRODUCTION. 7 

languish in the hands of the idle. It will frequently languish 
even in the hands of the busy, if they have not some employ- 
ment subsidiary to that which forms their main pursuit. How 
then shall these vacant spaces, those unemployed intervals, 
which, more or less, occur in the life of every one, be filled up ? 
How can we contrive to dispose of them in any way that shall 
be more agreeable in itself, or more consonant to the dignity of 
the human mind, than in the entertainments of taste, and the 
study of polite literature? He who is so happy as to have 
acquired a relish for these, has always at hand an innocent and 
irreproachable amusement for his leisure hours, to save him from 
the danger of many a pernicious passion. He is not in hazard 
of being a burden to himself. He is not obliged to fly to low 
company, or to court the riot of loose pleasures, in order to cure 
the tediousness of existence. 

Providence seems plainly to have pointed out this useful 
purpose to which the pleasures of taste may be applied, by 
interposing them in a middle station between the pleasures of 
sense and those of pure intellect. We were not designed to 
grovel always among objects so low as the former ; nor are we 
capable of dwelling constantly in so high a region as the latter. 
The pleasures of taste refresh the mind after the toils of the 
intellect, and the labours of abstract study ; and they gradually 
raise it above the attachments of sense, and prepare it for the 
enjoyments of virtue. 

So consonant is this to experience, that in the education of 
youth, no object has in every age appeared more important to 
wise men, than to tincture them early with a relish for the 
entertainments of taste. The transition is commonly made 
with ease from these to the discharge of the higher and more 
important duties of life. Good hopes may be entertained of 
those whose minds have this liberal and elegant turn. It is 
favourable to many virtues. Whereas, to be entirely devoid of 
relish for eloquence, poetry, or any of the fine arts, is justly 
construed to be an unpromising symptom of youth ; and raises 
suspicions of their being prone to low gratifications, or destined 
to drudge in the more vulgar and illiberal pursuits of life. 

There are, indeed, few good dispositions of any kind with 
which the improvement of taste is not more or less connected. 
A cultivated taste increases sensibility to all the tender and 
humane passions, by giving them frequent exercise; while it 
tends to weaken the more violent and fierce emotions. 

Ingenuas didicisse fideliter artes 
Emollit mores, nee sink esse feros.* 

-The elevated sentiments and high examples which ^poetry, elo- 
quence, and history, are often bringing under our view, naturally 

These polished arts have humanized mankind, 
Softened the rude, and calmed the boisterous mind. 



8 INTRODUCTION. [LECT. I. 

tend to nourish in our minds public spirit, the love of glory, 
contempt of external fortune, and the admiration of what is 
truly illustrious and great. 

I will not go so far as to say that the improvement of taste 
and of virtue is the same ; or that they may always be expected 
to co-exist in an equal degree. More powerful correctives than 
taste can apply are necessary for reforming the corrupt propen- 
sities which too frequently prevail among mankind. Elegant 
speculations are sometimes found to float on the surface of the 
mind, while bad passions possess the interior regions of the 
heart. At the same time this cannot but be admitted, that the 
exercise of taste is, in its native .tendency, moral and purifying. 
From reading the most admired productions of genius, whether 
in poetry or prose, almost every one rises with some good 
impressions left on his mind : and though these may not always 
be durable, they are at least to be ranked among the means of 
disposing the heart to virtue. One thing is certain, and I shall 
hereafter have occasion to illustrate it more fully, that, without 
possessing the virtuous affections in a strong degree, no man can 
attain eminence in the sublime parts of eloquence. He must 
feel what a good man feels, if he expects greatly to move, or to 
interest mankind. They are the ardent sentiments of honour, 
virtue, magnanimity, and public spirit, that only can kindle that 
fire of genius, and call up into the mind those high ideas, which 
attract the admiration of ages; and if this spirit be necessary 
to produce the most distinguished efforts of eloquence, it must 
be necessary also to our relishing them with proper taste and 
feeling. 

On these general topics I shall dwell no longer ; but proceed 
directly to the consideration of the subjects which are to employ 
the following Lectures : They divide themselves into five parts. 
First, some introductory dissertations on the Nature of Taste, 
and upon the sources of its pleasures : Secondly, the Considera- 
tion of Language : Thirdly, of Style : Fourthly, of Eloquence 
properly so called, or public speaking in its different kinds : 
Lastly, a Critical Examination of the most distinguished Species 
of Composition both in prose and verse. 



LECT. II.] TASTE. 



LECTUKE II. 

TASTE. 

The nature of the present undertaking leads me to begin 
with some inquiries concerning Taste ; as it is this faculty 
which is always appealed to in disquisitions concerning the merit 
of discourse and writing. 

There are few subjects on which men talk more loosely and 
indistinctly than on Taste ; few which it is more difficult to 
explain with precision ; and none which in this Course of 
Lectures will appear more dry or abstract. What I have to say 
on the subject shall be in the following order: — I shall first 
explain the Nature of Taste as a power or faculty in the human 
mind. I shall next consider how far it is an improveable 
faculty. I shall show the sources of its improvement, and the 
characters of Taste in its most perfect state. I shall then 
examine the various fluctuations to which it is liable, and 
inquire whether there be any standard to which we can bring 
the different tastes of men, in order to distinguish the corrupted 
from the true. 

Taste may be defined, " The power of receiving pleasure from 
the beauties of nature and of art." The first question that 
occurs concerning it is, whether it is to be considered as an in-^ 
ternal -sense, or as an exertion of reason. Reason is a very 
general term ; but if we understand by it that power of the 
mind which in speculative matters discovers truth, and in practi- 
cal matters judges of the fitness of means to an end, I appre- 
hend the question may be easily answered. For nothing can 
be more clear, than that Taste is not resolvable into any such 
operation of Reason. It is not merely through a discovery of 
the understanding, or a deduction of argument, that the mind 
receives pleasure from a beautiful prospect or a fine poem. Such 
objects often strike us intuitively, and make a strong impression, 
when we are unable to assign the reasons of our being pleased. 
They sometimes strike in the same manner the philosopher and 
the peasant ; the boy and the man. Hence the faculty by 
which we relish such beauties, seems more nearly allied to a 
feeling of sense, than to a process of the understanding ; and 
accordingly, from an external sense it has borrowed its name ; 
that sense by which we receive and distinguish the pleasures of 
food having, in several languages, given rise to the word Taste 
in the metaphorical meaning under which we now consider it. 
However, as in all subjects which regard the operations of the 
mind, the inaccurate use of words is to be carefully avoided, it 
must not be inferred from what I have said that reason is en- 



10 TASTE. [LECT. II. 

tirely excluded from the exertions of Taste. Though Taste, 
beyond doubt, be ultimately founded on a certain natural and 
instinctive sensibility to beauty, yet Reason, as I shall show 
hereafter, assists Taste in many of its operations, and serves to 
enlarge its power.* 

Taste, in the sense in which I have explained it, is a faculty 
common in some degree to all men. Nothing that belongs to 
human nature is more general than the relish of beauty of one 
kind or other; of what is orderly, proportioned, grand, har- 
monious, new, or sprightly. In children, the rudiments of Taste 
discover themselves very early in a thousand instances ; in their 
fondness for regular bodies, their admiration of pictures and 
statues, and imitations of all kinds ; and their strong attachment 
to whatever is new or marvellous. The most ignorant peasants 
are delighted with ballads and tales, and are struck with the 
beautiful appearance of nature in the earth and heavens. Even 
in the deserts of America, where human nature shows itself in 
its most uncultivated state, the savages have their ornaments of 
dress, their war and their death songs, their harangues and their 
orators. We must, therefore, conclude the principles of Taste 
to be deeply founded in the human mind. It is no less essential 
to man to have some discernment of beauty, than it is to possess 
the attributes of reason and of speech, f 

But although none be wholly devoid of this faculty, yet the 
degrees in which it is possessed are widely different. In some 
men only the feeble glimmerings of Taste appear ; the beauties 
which they relish are of the coarsest kind ; and of these they 
have but a weak and confused impression: while in others, 
Taste rises to an acute disoernment, and a lively enjoyment of 
the most refined beauties. In general we may observe, that in 

* See Dr. Gerard's Essay on Taste. — D'Alembert's Reflections on the Use and 
A buse of Philosophy in Matters which relate to Taste. — Reflections Critiques sur la 
P° esie et sur la Peinture, tome ii. ch. 22 — 31. — Elements of Criticism, c. 25. — Mr. 
H u me's Essay on the Standard of Taste. — Introduction to the Essay on the Sublime 
an<i Beautiful. 

if On the subject of Taste, considered as a power or faculty of the mind, much less 
is to be found among the ancient than among the modern rhetorical and critical 
writers. The following remarkable passage in Cicero serves however to show, that his 
ideas on this subject agree perfectly with what has been said above. He is speaking of 
the beauties of style and numbers. " Illud autem nequis admiretur quonam modo haec 
vulgus imperitorum in audiendo, notet ; cum in omni genere, turn in hoc ipso, magna 
quaedam est vis, incredibilisque naturae. Omnes enim tacito quodam sensu, sine ulla 
arte aut ratione, quae sint in artibus de rationibus recta et prava dijudicant : idque cum 
faciunt in picturis, et in signis, et in aliis operibus, ad quoram intelligentiam a natura 
minus habent instrumenti, turn multo ostendunt magis in verborum, numerorum, vo- 
cumque judicio ; quod ea sunt in communibus infixa sensibus ; neque earum rerum 
quenquam funditus naturae voluit esse expertem." Cic. de Orat. lib. iii. cap. 50. edit. 

Gruteri. -Quintilian seems to include Taste (for which, in the sense which we now 

give to that word, the ancients appear to have had no distinct name) under what he 
calls judicium. "Locus de judicio, mea quidem opinione adeo partibus hujus operis 
omnibus connectus ac mistus est, ut ne a sententiis quidem aut verbis saltern singulis 
possit separari, nee magis arte traditur quam gustus aut odor. — Ut contraria vitemus et 
communia, ne quid in eloquendo corruptum obscurumque sit, referatur o.portet ad sensus 
qui non docentur." Institut. lib. vi. cap. 3. edit. Obrechti. 



LECT. II.] TASTE. 11 

the powers and pleasures of taste, there is a more remarkable 
inequality among men, than is usually found, in point of common 
sense, reason, and judgment. The constitution of our nature 
in this, as in all other respects, discovers admirable wisdom. In 
the distribution of those talents which are necessary for man's 
well-being, Nature hath made less distinction among her children. 
But in the distribution of those which belong only to the orna- 
mental part of life, she hath bestowed her favours with more 
frugality. She hath both sown the seeds more sparingly, 
and rendered a higher culture requisite for bringing them to 
perfection. 

This inequality of Taste among men is owing, without doubt, 
in part, to the different frame of their natures ; to nicer organs, 
and finer internal powers, with which some ar-e endowed beyond 
others. But, if it be owing in part to nature, it is owing to edu- 
cation and culture still more. The illustration of this leads to 
my next remark on this subject, that Taste is a most improveable 
faculty, if there be any such in human nature ; a remark which 
gives great encouragement to such a course of study as we are 
now proposing to pursue. Of the truth of this assertion we 
may easily be convinced, by only reflecting on that immense 
superiority which education and improvement give to civilized 
above barbarous nations, in refinement of taste ; and on the 
superiority which they give in the same nation to those who 
have studied the liberal arts, above the rude and untaught 
vulgar. The difference is so great, that there is perhaps no one 
particular in which these two classes of men are so far removed 
from each other, as in respect of the powers and the pleasures of 
Taste : and assuredly for this difference no other general cause 
can be assigned but culture and education.— I shall now proceed 
to show what the means are by which Taste becomes so remark- 
ably susceptible of cultivation and progress. 

Reflect first upon that great law of our nature, that exercise 
is the chief source of improvement in all our faculties. This 
holds both in our bodily, and in our mental powers. It holds 
even in our external senses ; although these be less the subject 
of cultivation than any of our other faculties. We see how 
acute the senses become in persons whose trade or business leads 
to nice exertions of them. Touch, for instance, becomes in- 
finitely more exquisite in men whose employment requires them 
to examine the polish of bodies, than it is in others. They who 
deal in microscopical observations, or are accustomed to engrave 
on precious stones, acquire surprising accuracy of sight in dis- 
cerning the minutest objects ; and practice in attending to 
different flavours and tastes of liquors, wonderfully improves 
the power of distinguishing them, and of tracing their composi- 
tion. Placing internal Taste therefore on the footing of a 
simple sense, it cannot be doubted that frequent exercise and 
curious attention to its proper objects, must greatly heighten its 

D 2 



12 TASTE. [LECT. II. 

power. Of this we have one clear proof in that part of Taste 
which is called an ear for music. Experience every day shows, 
that nothing is more improveable. Only the simplest and 
plainest compositions are relished at first ; use and practice ex- 
tend our pleasure; teach us to relish finer melody, and by 
degrees enable us to enter into the intricate and compounded 
pleasures of harmony. So an eye for the beauties of painting 
is never all at once acquired. It is gradually formed by being 
conversant among pictures, and studying the works of the best 
masters. 

Precisely in the same manner, with respect to the beauty of 
composition and discourse, attention to the most approved 
models, study of the best authors, comparisons of lower and 
higher degrees of the same beauties, operate towards the refine- 
ment of Taste. When one is only beginning his acquaintance 
with works of genius, the sentiment which attends them is 
obscure and confused. He cannot point out the several excel- 
lencies or blemishes of a performance which he peruses ; he is 
at a loss on what to rest his judgment; all that can be expected 
is, that he should tell in general whether he be pleased or not. 
But allow him more experience in works of this kind, and his 
Taste becomes by degrees more exact and enlightened. He 
begins to perceive not only the character of the whole, but the 
beauties and defects of each part; and is able to describe the 
peculiar qualities which he praises or blames. The mist is dis- 
sipated which seemed formerly to hang over the object ; and he 
can at length pronounce firmly, and without hesitation, concern- 
ing it. Thus in Taste, considered as mere sensibility, exercise 
opens a great source of improvement. 

But although Taste be ultimately founded on sensibility, it 
must not be considered as instinctive sensibility alone. Reason 
and good sense, as I before hinted, have so extensive an influ- 
ence on all the operations and decisions of Taste, that a thorough 
good Taste may well be considered as a power compounded of 
natural sensibility to beauty, and of improved understanding. 
In order to be satisfied of this, let us observe, that the greater 
part of the productions of genius are no other than imitations of 
nature ; representations of the characters, actions, or manners of 
men. The pleasure we receive from such imitations or repre- 
sentations is founded on mere Taste ; but to judge whether they 
be properly executed belongs to the understanding, which com- 
pares the copy with the original. 

In reading, for instance, such a poem as the ^Eneid, a great 
part of our pleasure arises from the plan or story being well 
conducted, and all the parts joined together with probability and 
due connexion; from the characters being taken from nature, 
the sentiments being suited to the characters, and the style to 
the sentiments. The pleasure which arises from a poem so con- 
ducted, is felt or enjoyed by Taste as an internal sense ; but the 



LECT. II.] TASTE. 13 

discovery of this conduct in the poem is owing to reason ; and 
the more that reason enables us to discover such propriety in the 
conduct, the greater will be our pleasure. We are pleased, 
through our natural sense of beauty. Reason shows us why, 
and upon what grounds, we are pleased. Wherever, in works of 
Taste, any resemblance to nature is aimed at ; wherever there is 
any reference of parts to a whole, or of means to an end, as 
there is indeed in almost every writing and discourse ; there the 
understanding must always have a great part to act. 

Here then is a wide field for reason's exerting its powers in 
relation to the objects of Taste, particularly with respect to 
composition and works of genius ; and hence arises a second and 
a very considerable source of the improvement of Taste, from 
the application of reason and good sense to such productions of 
genius. Spurious beauties, such as unnatural characters, forced 
sentiments, affected style, may please for a little, but they please 
only because their opposition to nature and to good sense has 
not been examined or attended to. Once show how nature 
might have been more justly imitated or represented ; how the 
writer might have managed his subject to greater advantage; 
the illusion will presently be dissipated, and these false beauties 
will please no more. 

From these two sources then, first, the frequent exercise of 
Taste, and next the application of good sense and reason to the 
objects of Taste ; Taste as a power of the mind receives its im- 
provement. In its perfect state it is undoubtedly the result 
both of nature and of art. It supposes our natural sense of 
beauty to be refined by frequent attention to the most beautiful h^ 
objects ; and, at the same time, to be guided and improved by 
the light of the understanding. 

I must be allowed to add, that as a sound head, so likewise a 
good heart, is a very material requisite to just Taste. The 
moral beauties are not only in themselves superior to all others, 
but they exert an influence, either more near or more remote, 
on a great variety of other objects of Taste. Wherever the 
affections, characters, or actions of men are concerned (and these 
certainly afford the noblest subjects to genius), there can be 
neither any just or affecting description of them, nor any tho- 
rough feeling of the beauty of that description, without our pos- 
sessing the virtuous affections. . He whose heart is indelicate or 
hard, he who has no admiration of what is truly noble or praise- 
worthy, nor the proper sympathetic sense of what is soft and 
tender, must have a very imperfect relish of the highest beauties 
of eloquence and poetry. 

The characters of Taste, when brought to its most improved 
state, are all reducible to two, Delicacy and Correctness. 

Delicacy of Taste respects principally the perfection of that 
natural sensibility on which Taste is founded. It implies those 
finer organs or powers which enable us to discover beauties that 



14 TASTE. [LECT. II. 

lie hid from a vulgar eye. One may have strong sensibility, and 
yet be deficient in delicate Taste. He may be deeply impressed 
by such beauties as he perceives ; but he perceives only what is 
in some degree coarse, what is bold and palpable ; while chaster 
and simpler ornaments escape his notice. In this state Taste 
generally exists among rude and unrefined nations. But a person 
of delicate Taste both feels strongly and feels accurately. He 
sees distinctions and differences where others see none ; the most 
latent* beauty does not escape him, and he is sensible of the 
smallest blemish. Delicacy of Taste is judged of by the same 
marks that we use in judging of the delicacy of an external 
sense. As the goodness of the palate is not tried by strong 
flavours, but by a mixture of ingredients, where, notwithstanding 
the confusion, we remain sensible of each ; in like manner deli- 
cacy of internal Taste appears, by a quick and lively sensibility 
to its finest, most compounded, or most latent objects. 

Correctness of Taste respects chiefly the improvement which 
that faculty receives through its connexion with the understand- 
ing. A man of correct Taste is one who is never imposed on by 
counterfeit beauties ; who carries always in his mind that stand- 
ard of good sense which he employs in judging of every thing. 
He estimates with propriety the comparative merit of the several 
beauties which he meets with in any work of genius ; refers them 
to their proper classes ; assigns the principles, as far as they can 
be traced, whence their power of pleasing flows ; and is pleased 
himself precisely in that degree in which he ought, and no more. 

It is true that these two qualities of Taste, Delicacy and 
Correctness, mutually imply each other. No Taste can be 
exquisitely delicate without being correct; nor can be thoroughly 
correct without being delicate. But still a predominancy of one 
or other quality in the mixture is often visible. The power of 
Delicacy is chiefly seen in discerning the true merit of a work ; 
the power of Correctness, in rejecting false pretensions to merit. 
Delicacy leans more to feeling ; Correctness more to reason and 
judgment. The former is more the gift of nature ; the latter 
more the product of culture and art. Among the ancient critics, 
Longinus possessed most Delicacy ; Aristotle most Correctness. 
Among the moderns, Mr. Addison is a high example of delicate 
Taste ; Dean Swift, had he written on the subject of criticism, 
would perhaps have afforded the example of a correct one. 

Having viewed Taste in its most improved and perfect state, 
I come next to consider its deviations from that state, the fluc- 
tuations and changes to which it is liable; and to inquire whether, 
in the midst of these, there be any means of distinguishing a true 
from a corrupted Taste. This brings us to the most difficult 
part of our task. For it must be acknowledged, that no princi- 
ple of the human mind is, in its operations, more fluctuating and 
capricious than Taste. Its variations have been so great and 
frequent, as to create a suspicion with some, of its being merely 



LECT. II.] TASTE. 15 

arbitrary ; grounded on no foundation, ascertainable by no 
standard, but wholly dependent on changing fancy; the conse- 
quence of which would be, that all studies or regular inquiries 
concerning the objects of Taste were vain. In architecture, the 
Grecian models were long esteemed the most perfect. In suc- 
ceeding ages, the Gothic architecture alone prevailed, and after- 
wards the Grecian Taste revived in all its vigour, and engrossed 
the public admiration. In eloquence and poetry, the Asiatics at 
no time relished any thing but what was full of ornament, and 
splendid in a degree that we should denominate gaudy : whilst 
the Greeks admired only chaste and simple beauties, and despised 
the Asiatic ostentation. In our own country, how many writings 
that were greatly extolled two or three centuries ago, are now 
fallen into entire disrepute and oblivion ? Without going back 
to remote instances, how very different is the taste of poetry 
which prevails in Great Britain now, from what prevailed there 
no longer ago than the reign of King Charles IL, which the 
authors too of that time deemed an Augustan age : when nothing 
was in vogue but an affected brilliancy of wit ; when the simple 
majesty of Milton was overlooked, and Paradise Lost almost 
entirely unknown ; when Cowley's laboured and unnatural con- 
ceits were admired as the very quintessence of genius ; Waller's 
gay sprightliness was mistaken for the tender spirit of love 
poetry ; and such writings as Suckling and Etheridge were held 
in esteem for dramatic composition. 

The question is, what conclusion we are to form from such 
instances as these ? Is there any thing that can be called a 
standard of Taste, by appealing to which we may distinguish 
between a good and a bad Taste ? Or, is there in truth no such 
distinction, and are we to hold that, according to the proverb, 
there is no disputing of Tastes ; but that whatever pleases is 
right, for that reason, that it does please ? This is the question, 
and a very nice and subtle one it is, which we are now to discuss. 

I begin by observing, that if there be no such thing as any 
standard of Taste, this consequence must immediately follow, 
that all Tastes are equally good ; a position which, though it 
may pass unnoticed in slight matters, and when we speak of the 
lesser differences among the Tastes of men, yet when we apply 
it to the extremes, presently shows its absurdity. For is there 
any one who will seriously maintain that the Taste of a Hottentot 
or a Laplander is as delicate and as correct as that of a Longinus 
or an Addison ? or that he can be charged with no defect or 
incapacity, who thinks a common news-writer as excellent an 
historian as Tacitus ? As it would be held downright extrava- 
gance to talk in this manner, we are led unavoidably to this 
conclusion, that there is some foundation for the preference of 
one man's Taste to that of another ; or that there is a good and 
a bad, a right and a wrong, in Taste, as in other things. 

But to prevent mistakes on this subject, it is necessary to 



16 TASTE. [LECT. II. 

observe next, that the diversity of Tastes which prevails among 
mankind, does not in every case infer corruption of Taste, or 
oblige us to seek for some standard in order to determine who 
are in the right. The Tastes of men may differ very consider- 
ably as to their object, and yet none of them be wrong. One 
man relishes poetry most ; another takes pleasure in nothing but 
history. One prefers comedy; another tragedy. One admires 
the simple, another the ornamented style. The young are 
amused with gay and sprightly compositions ; the elderly are 
more entertertained with those of a graver cast. Some nations 
delight in bold pictures of manners, and strong representations 
of passion ; others incline to more correct and regular elegance 
both in description and sentiment. Though all differ, yet all 
pitch upon some one beauty which peculiarly suits their turn of 
mind ; and therefore no one has a title to condemn the rest. It 
is not in matters of Taste, as in questions of mere reason, where 
there is but one conclusion that can be true, and all the rest 
erroneous. Truth, which is the object of reason, is one ; Beauty, 
which is the object of Taste, is manifold. Taste, therefore, 
admits of latitude and diversity of objects, in sufficient consist- 
ency with goodness or justness of Taste. 

But then, to explain this matter thoroughly, I must observe 
farther, that this admissible diversity of Tastes can only have 
place where the objects of Taste are different. Where it is 
with respect to the same object that men disagree, when one 
condemns that as ugly, which another admires as highly beau- 
tiful; then it is no longer diversity, but direct opposition of 
Taste that takes place ; and therefore one must be in the right, 
and another in the wrong, unless that absurd paradox were 
allowed to hold, that all tastes are equally good and true. One 
man prefers Virgil to Homer. Suppose that I, on the other 
hand, admire Homer more than Yirgil. I have as yet no reason 
to say that our Tastes are contradictory. The other person is 
more struck with the elegance and tenderness which are the 
characteristics of Yirgil : I, with the simplicity and fire of 
Homer. As long as neither of us deny that both Homer and 
Virgil have great beauties, our difference falls within the com- 
pass of that diversity of Tastes, which I have shown to be 
natural and allowable. But if that man shall assert that Homer 
has no beauties whatever; that he holds him to be a dull and 
spiritless writer, and that he would as soon peruse any old 
legend of Knight-errantry, as the Iliad ; then I exclaim, that 
my antagonist either is void of all Taste, or that his Taste is 
corrupted in a miserable degree; and I appeal to whatever I 
think the standard of Taste, to show him that he is in the 
wrong. 

What that standard is, to which, in such opposition of Tastes, 
we are obliged to have recourse, remains to be traced. A 
standard properly, signifies that which is of such undoubted 



LECT. II.] TASTE. 17 

authority as to be the test of other things of the same kind. 
Thus a standard weight or measure is that which is appointed 
by law to regulate all other measures and weights. Thus the 
court is said to be the standard of good breeding ; and the scrip- 
ture of theological truth. 

When we say that nature is the standard of Taste, we lay down 
a principle very true and just, as far as it can be applied. There 
is no doubt, that in all cases where an imitation is intended of 
some object that exists in nature, as in representing human cha- 
racters or actions, conformity to nature affords a full and distinct 
criterion of what is truly beautiful. Reason hath in such cases 
full scope for exerting its authority, for approving or condemning; 
by comparing the copy with the original. But there are innu- 
merable cases in which this rule cannot be at all applied, and 
conformity to nature, is an expression frequently used, without 
any distinct or determinate meaning. We must therefore search 
for somewhat that can be rendered more clear and precise, to be 
the standard of Taste. 

Taste, as I before explained it, is ultimately founded on an 
internal sense of beauty, which is natural to men, and which, in 
its application to particular objects, is capable of being guided 
and enlightened by reason. Now, were there any one person 
who possessed in full perfection all the powers of human nature, 
whose internal senses were in every instance exquisite and just, 
and whose reason was unerring and sure, the determinations of 
such a person concerning beauty, would, beyond doubt, be a 
perfect standard for the Taste of all others. Wherever their 
Taste differed from his, it could be imputed only to some imper- 
fection in their natural powers. But as there is no such living 
standard, no one person to whom all mankind will allow such 
submission to be due, what is there of sufficient authority to be 
the standard of the various and opposite Tastes of men ? Most 
certainly there is nothing but the Taste, as far it can be gathered, 
of human nature. That which men concur the most in admiring 
must be held to be beautiful. His Taste must be esteemed just 
and true, which coincides with the general sentiments of men. 
In this standard we must rest. To the sense of mankind the 
ultimate appeal must ever lie, in all works of Taste. If any one 
should maintain that sugar was bitter and tobacco was sweet, no 
reasonings could avail to prove it. The Taste of such a person 
would infallibly be held to be diseased, merely because it differed 
so widely from the Taste of the species to which he belongs. In 
like manner, with regard to the objects of sentiment or internal 
Taste, the common feelings of men carry the same authority, and 
have a title to regulate the Taste of every individual. 

But have we then, it will be said, no other criterion of what 
is beautiful than the approbation of the majority ? Must we 
collect the voices of others, before we form any judgment for 
ourselves, of what deserves applause in Eloquence or Poetry? 



18 taste:. [lect. ii. 

By no means; there are principles of reason and sound judg- 
ment which can be applied to matters of Taste, as well as to the 
subjects of science and philosophy. He who admires or censures 
any work of genius, is always ready, if his Taste be in any 
degree improved, to assign some reasons for his decision. He 
appeals to principles, and points out the grounds on which he 
proceeds. Taste is a sort of compound power, in which the 
light of the understanding always mingles, more or less, with the 
feelings of sentiment. 

But though reason can carry us a certain length in judging 
concerning works of Taste, it is not to be forgotten that the 
ultimate conclusions to which our reasonings lead, refer at last 
to sense and perception. We may speculate and argue concern- 
ing propriety of conduct in a Tragedy or an Epic Poem. Just 
reasonings on the subject will correct the caprice of unenlight- 
ened Taste, and establish principles for judging of what deserves 
praise. But, at the same time, these reasonings appeal always, 
in the last resort, to feeling. The foundation upon which they 
rest, is what has been found from experience to please mankind 
universally. Upon this ground we prefer a simple and natural, 
to an artificial and affected style ; a regular and well- connected 
story, to loose and scattered narratives ; a catastrophe which is 
tender and pathetic, to one which leaves us unmoved. It is 
from consulting our own imagination and heart, and from attend- 
ing to the feelings of others, that any principles are formed which 
acquire authority in matters of Taste.* 

When we refer to the concurring sentiments of men, as the 
ultimate test of what is to be accounted beautiful in the arts, 
this is always to be understood of men placed in such situations 
as are favourable to the proper exertions of Taste. Every one 
must perceive, that among rude and uncivilized nations, and 
during the ages of ignorance and darkness, any loose notions 
that are entertained concerning such subjects carry no authority. 
In those states of society, Taste has no materials on which to 
operate. It is either totally suppressed, or appears in its lowest 

* The difference between the authors who found the standard of Taste upon the com- 
mon feelings of human nature ascertained by general approbation, and those who found 
it upon established principles which can be ascertained by reason, is more an apparent 
than a real difference. Like many other literary controversies, it turns chiefly on modes 
of expression. For they who lay the greatest stress on sentiment and feeling, make no 
scruple of applying argument and reason to matters of Taste. They appeal, like other 
writers, to established principles, in judging of the excellencies of Eloquence or Poetry; 
and plainly show, that the general approbation, to which they ultimately recur, is an 
approbation resulting from discussion as well as from sentiment. They, on the other 
hand, who, in order to vindicate Taste from any suspicion of being arbitrary, maintain 
that it is ascertainable by the standard of Reason, admit, nevertheless, that what pleases 
universally, must on that account be held to be truly beautiful ; and that no rules or 
conclusions concerning objects of Taste can have any just authority, if they be found to 
contradict the general sentiments of men. These two systems, therefore, differ in reality 
very little from one another. Sentiment and Reason enter into both ; and by allowing 
to each of these powers its due place, both systems may be rendered consistent. Accord- 
ingly, it is in this light that I have endeavoured to place the subject. 



LECT. II."] TASTE. 19 

and most imperfect form. We refer to the sentiments of man- 
kind in polished and flourishing nations ; when arts are culti- 
vated and manners refined ; when works of genius are subjected 
to free discussion, and Taste is improved by Science and 
Philosophy. 

Even among nations, at such a period of society, I admit, that 
accidental causes may occasionally warp the proper operations 
of Taste ; sometimes the state of religion, sometimes the form 
of government, may for a while pervert it; a licentious court 
may introduce a taste for false ornaments and dissolute writings. 
The usage of one admired genius may procure approbation for 
his faults, and even render them fashionable. Sometimes envy 
may have power to bear down, for a little, productions of great 
merit; while popular humour, or party spirit, may, at other 
times, exalt to a high, though short-lived, reputation, what little 
deserved it. But though such casual circumstances give the 
appearance of caprice to the judgments of Taste, that appearance 
is easily corrected. In the course of time, the genuine taste of 
human nature never fails to disclose itself, and to gain the ascend- 
ant over any fantastic and corrupted modes of Taste which may 
chance to have been introduced. These may have currency for 
a while, and mislead superficial judges; but being subjected 
to examination, by degrees they pass away ; while that alone 
remains which is founded on sound reason and the native feel- 
ings of men. 

I by no means pretend that there is any standard of Taste, 
to which, in every particular instance, we can resort for clear 
and immediate determination. Where, indeed, is such a stand- 
ard to be found for deciding any of those great controversies 
in reason and philosophy, which perpetually divide mankind? 
In the present case, there was plainly no occasion for any such 
strict and absolute provision to be made. In order to judge of 
what is morally good or evil, of what man ought or ought not in 
duty to do, it was fit that the means of clear and precise deter- 
mination should be afforded us. But to ascertain in every case, 
with the utmost exactness, what is beautiful or elegant, was not 
at all necessary to the happiness of man. And therefore some 
diversity in feeling was here allowed to take place ; and room 
was left for discussion and debate, concerning the degree of 
approbation to which any work of genius is entitled. 

The conclusion, which it is sufficient for us to rest upon, is, 
that Taste is far from being an arbitrary principle, which is 
subject to the fancy of every individual, and which admits of no 
criterion for determining whether it be false or true. Its found- 
ation is the same in all human minds. It is built upon sentiments 
and perceptions which belong to our nature ; and which in gene- 
ral operate with the same uniformity as our other intellectual 
principles. When these sentiments are perverted by ignorance 
and prejudice, they are capable of being rectified by reason. 



20 CRITICISM. [LECT. III. 

Their sound and natural state is ultimately determined, by com- 
paring them with the general Taste of mankind. Let men 
declaim as much as they please, concerning the caprice and the 
uncertainty of Taste, it is found by experience, that there are 
beauties, which, if they be displayed in a proper light, have 
power to command lasting and general admiration. In every 
composition, what interests the imagination and touches the 
heart, pleases all ages and all nations. There is a certain 
string to which, when properly struck, the human heart is so 
made as to answer. 

Hence the universal testimony which the most improved 
nations of the earth have conspired throughout a long tract of 
ages, to give to some few works of genius ; such as the Iliad of 
Homer, and the JEneid of Virgil. Hence the authority which 
such works have aequired as standards, in some degree, of 
poetical composition ; since from them we are enabled to collect 
what the sense of mankind is, concerning those beauties which 
give them the highest pleasure, and which therefore poetry ought 
to exhibit. Authority or prejudice may, in one age or country, 
give a temporary reputation to an indifferent poet or a bad 
artist : but when foreigners, or when posterity, examine his 
works, his faults are discerned, and the genuine Taste of human 
nature appears. " Opinionum commenta delet dies ; naturae 
judicia confirmat." Time overthrows the illusions of opinion, 
but establishes the decisions of nature. 



LECTUEE III. 
t 

CRITICISM. — GENIUS. PLEASURES OF TASTE. — SUBLIMITY 

IN OBJECTS. 

Taste, Criticism, and Genius, are words currently employed, 
without distinct ideas annexed to them. In beginning a course 
of lectures where such words must often occur, it is necessary 
to ascertain their meaning with some precision. Having in the 
last lecture treated of Taste, I proceed to explain the nature 
and foundation of Criticism. True Criticism is the application 
of Taste and of good sense to the several fine arts. The object 
which it proposes is, to distinguish what is beautiful and what 
is faulty in every performance; from particular instances to 
ascend to general principles ; and so to form rules or conclusions 
concerning the several kinds of beauty in works of Genius. 

The rules of Criticism are not formed by any induction, a 
priori, as it is called ; that is, they are not formed by a train of 
abstract reasoning, independent of facts and observations. 
Criticism is an art founded wholly on experience ; on the obser- 



LECT. III.] CRITICISM. 21 

vations of such beauties as have come nearest to the standard 
which I before established ; that is, of such beauties as have 
beeu found to please mankind most generally. For example : 
Aristotle's rules concerning the unity of action in dramatic and 
epic composition, were not rules first discovered by logical 
reasoning, and then applied to poetry; but they were drawn 
from the practice of Homer and Sophocles : they were founded 
upon observing the superior pleasure which we receive from the 
relation of an action which is one and entire, beyond what we 
receive from the relation of scattered and unconnected facts. 
Such observations taking their rise at first from feeling and 
experience, were found on examination to be so consonant to 
reason, and to the principles of human nature, as to pass into 
established rules, and to be conveniently applied for judging of 
the excellency of any performance. This is the most natural 
account of the origin of Criticism. 

A masterly genius, it is true, will of himself, untaught, com- 
pose in such a manner as shall be agreeable to the most material 
rules of Criticism; for as these rules are founded in nature, 
nature will often suggest them in practice. Homer, it is more 
than probable, was acquainted with no systems of the art of 
poetry. Guided by genius alone, he composed in verse a regu- 
lar story, which all posterity has admired. But this is no argu- 
ment against the usefulness of Criticism as an art. For as no 
human genius is perfect, there is no writer but may receive 
assistance from critical observations upon the beauties and faults 
of those who have gone before him. No observations or rules 
can indeed supply the defect of Genius, or inspire it where it is 
wanting. But they may often direct it into its proper channel ; 
they may correct its extravagancies, and point out to it the most 
just and proper imitation of nature. Critical rules are designed 
chiefly to show the faults that ought to be avoided. To nature 
we must be indebted for the production of eminent beauties. 

From what has been said, we are enabled to form a judgment 
concerning those complaints which it has long been fashionable 
for petty authors to make against Critics and Criticism. Critics 
have been represented as the great abridgers of the native liberty 
of genius ; as the imposers of unnatural shackles and bonds upon 
writers, from whose cruel persecution they must fly to the pub- 
lic, and implore its protection. Such supplicatory prefaces are 
not calculated to give very favourable ideas of the genius of the 
author. For every good writer will be pleased to have his work 
examined by the principles of sound understanding, and true 
Taste. The declamations against Criticism commonly proceed 
upon this supposition, that Critics are such as judge by rule, not 
by feeling ; which is so far from being true, that they who judge 
after this manner are Pedants, not Critics. For all the rules of 
genuine Criticism I have shown to be ultimately founded on 
feeling ; and Taste and Feeling are necessary to guide us in the 



22 CRITICISM. [LECT. III. 

application of these rules to every particular instance. As there 
is nothing in which all sorts of persons more readily affect to be 
judges than in works of Taste, there is no doubt that the number 
of incompetent Critics will always be great. But this affords no 
more foundation for a general invective against Criticism, than 
the number of bad philosophers or reasoners affords against 
reason and philosophy. 

An objection more plausible may be formed against Criticism, 
from the applause that some performances have received from 
the public, which, when accurately considered, are found to con- 
tradict the rules established by Criticism. Now, according to the 
principles laid down in the last lecture, the public is the 
supreme judge to whom the last appeal must be made in every 
work of Taste ; as the standard of Taste is founded on the senti- 
ments that are natural and common to all men. But with 
respect to this, we are to observe, that the sense of the public 
is often too hastily judged of. The genuine public Taste does 
not always appear in the first applause given upon the publi- 
cation of any new work. There are both a great vulgar and a 
small, apt to be caught and dazzled by very superficial beauties, 
the admiration of which in a little time passes away : and some- 
times a writer may acquire great temporary reputation merely 
by his compliance with the passions or prejudices, with the party 
spirit or superstitious notions, that may chance to rule for a 
time almost a whole nation. In such cases, though the public 
may seem to praise, true Criticism may with reason condemn ; 
and it will in progress of time gain the ascendant : for the judg- 
ment of true Criticism, and the voice of the public, when once 
become unprejudiced and dispassionate, will ever coincide at 
last. 

Instances, I admit, there are, of some works, that contain gross 
transgressions of the laws of Criticism, acquiring, nevertheless, a 
general, and even a lasting admiration. Such are the plays 
of Shakspeare, which, considered as dramatic poems, are irre- 
gular in the highest degree. But then we are to remark, that 
they have gained the public admiration, not by their being 
irregular, not by their transgressions of the rules of art, but 
in -spite of such transgressions. They possess other beauties 
which are conformable to just rules ; and the force of these 
beauties has been so great as to overpower all censure, and 
to give the public a degree of satisfaction superior to the disgust 
arising from their blemishes. Shakspeare pleases, not by his 
bringing the transactions of many years into one play ; not 
by his grotesque mixtures of Tragedy and Comedy in one 
piece, nor by the strained thoughts, and affected witticisms, 
which he sometimes employs. These we consider as blemishes, 
and impute them to the grossness of the age in which he lived. 
But he pleases by his animated and masterly representations of 
characters, by the liveliness of his descriptions, the force of his 



LECT. III.] GENIUS. 23 

sentiments, and by his possessing, beyond all writers, the natural 
language of passion : beauties which true Criticism no less teaches 
us to place in the highest rank, than Nature teaches us to feel. 

I proceed next to explain the meaning of another term, which 
there will be frequent occasion to employ in these Lectures ; 
that is, Genius. 

Taste and Genius are two words frequently joined together ; 
and therefore, by inaccurate thinkers, confounded. They signify, 
however, two quite different things. The difference between them 
can be clearly pointed out ; and it is of importance to remember it. 
Taste consists in the power of judging; Genius in the power of 
executing. One may have a considerable degree of Taste in 
poetry, eloquence, or any of the fine arts, who has little or 
hardly any Genius for composition or execution in any of these 
arts ; but Genius cannot be found without including Taste also. 
Genius, therefore, deserves to be considered as a higher power 
of the mind than Taste. Genius always imports something 
inventive or creative; which does not rest in mere sensibility 
to beauty where it is perceived, but which can, moreover, pro- 
duce new beauties, and exhibit them in such a manner as 
strongly to impress the minds of others. Refined Taste forms 
a good critic ; but Genius is farther necessary to form the poet, 
or the orator. 

It is proper also to observe, that Genius is a word, which, 
in common acceptation, extends much farther than to the objects 
of Taste. It is used to signify that talent or aptitude which we 
receive from nature, for excelling in any one thing whatever. 
Thus we speak of a Genius for mathematics, as well as a Genius 
for poetry ; of a Genius for war, for politics, or for any mechani- 
cal employment. 

This talent or aptitude for excelling in some one particular is, 
I have said, what we receive from nature. By art and study, 
no doubt, it may be greatly improved; but by them alone it 
cannot be acquired. As Genius is a higher faculty than Taste, 
it is ever, according to the usual frugality of nature, more limited 
in the sphere of its operations. It is not uncommon to meet 
with persons who have an excellent Taste in several of the 
polite arts, such as music, poetry, painting, and eloquence, all 
together : but, to find one who is an excellent performer in all 
these arts, is much more rare ; or rather, indeed, such an one is 
not to be looked for. A sort of universal Genius, or one who is 
equally and indifferently turned towards several different pro- 
fessions and arts, is not likely to excel in any. Although 
there may be some few exceptions, yet in general it holds, that 
when the bent of the mind is wholly directed towards some one 
object, exclusive, in a manner, of others, there is the fairest 
prospect of eminence in that, whatever it be. The rays must 
converge to a point, in order to glow intensely. This remark I 
here choose to make, on account of its great importance to 



24 PLEASURES OF TASTE. [LECT. III. 

young people; in leading them to examine with care and to 
pursue with ardour, the current and pointing of nature towards 
those exertions of Genius in which they are most likely to 
excel. 

A Genius for any of the fine arts, as I before observed, always 
supposes Taste ; and it is clear, that the improvement of Taste 
will serve both to forward and to correct the operations of 
Genius. In proportion as the taste of a poet, or orator, becomes 
more refined with respect to the beauties of composition, it will 
certainly assist him to produce the more finished beauties in 
his work. Genius, however, in a poet, or orator, may sometimes 
exist in a higher degree than Taste ; that is, Genius may be 
bold and strong, when Taste is neither very delicate, nor very 
correct. This is often the case in the infancy of arts : a period 
when Genius frequently exerts itself with great vigour, and 
executes with much warmth ; while Taste, which requires ex- 
perience, and improves by slower degrees, hath not yet attained 
to its full growth. Homer and Shakspeare are proofs of what 
I now assert : in whose admirable writings are found instances 
of rudeness and indelicacy, which the more refined Taste of later 
writers, who had far inferior Genius to them, would have taught 
them to avoid. As all human perfection is limited, this may 
very probably be the law of our nature, that it is not given to 
one man to execute with vigour and fire, and at the same time, to 
attend to all the lesser and more refined graces that belong to the 
exact perfection of his work ; while, on the other hand, a 
thorough Taste for those inferior graces, is, for the most part, ac- 
companied with a diminution of sublimity and force. 

Having thus explained the nature of Taste, the nature and im- 
portance of Criticism, and the distinction between Taste and 
Genius ; I am now to consider the sources of the pleasures of 
Taste. Here opens a very extensive field; no less than all 
the pleasures of the imagination, as they are commonly called, 
whether afforded us by natural objects, or by the imitations 
and descriptions of them. But it is not necessary to the pur- 
pose of my Lectures that all these should be examined fully ; 
the pleasure which we receive from discourse, or writing, being 
the main object of them. All that I propose is to give some 
openings into the pleasures of Taste in general ; and to insist 
more particularly upon Sublimity and Beauty. 

We are far from having yet attained to any system concerning 
this subject. Mr. Addison was the first who attempted a 
regular inquiry, in his Essay on the Pleasures of the Imagina- 
tion, published in the sixth volume of the Spectator. He has 
reduced these Pleasures under three heads ; Beauty, Grandeur, 
and Novelty. His speculations on this subject, if not exceed- 
ingly profound, are, however, very beautiful and entertaining; 
and he has the merit of having opened a track, which was before 
unbeaten. The advances made since his time in this curious part 



LlA 1\ HI.*] PLEASURES OF TASTE. ' 25 

of philosophical criticism, are not very considerable, though some 
ingenious writers have pursued the subject. This is owing, 
doubtless, to that thinness and subtiltv which are found to 
be properties of all the feelings of Taste. They are engaging 
objects, but when we would lay firm hold of them, and sub- 
ject them to a regular discussion, they are always ready to 
elude our grasp. It is difficult to make a full enumeration of 
the several objects that give pleasure to Taste ; it is more 
difficult to define all those which have been discovered, and 
to reduce them under proper classes; and, when we would go 
farther, and investigate the efficient causes of the pleasure which 
we receive from such objects, here, above all, we find ourselves 
at a loss. For instance ; we all learn by experience, that certain 
figures of bodies appear to us more beautiful than others. On 
inquiring farther, we find that the regularity of some figures, 
and the graceful variety of others, are the foundation of the 
beauty which we discern in them ; but when we attempt to go a 
step beyond this, and inquire what is the cause of regularity and 
variety producing in our minds the sensation of Beauty, any 
reason we can assign is extremely imperfect, These first prin- 
ciples of internal sensation nature seems to have covered with 
an impenetrable veil. 

It is some comfort, however, that although the efficient cause 
be obscure, the final cause of those sensations lies in many cases 
more open: and, in entering on this subject, we cannot avoid 
taking notice of the strong impression which the powers of Taste 
and Imagination are calculated to give us of the benignity 
of our Creator. By endowing us with such powers, he hath 
widely enlarged the sphere of the pleasures of human life ; and 
those too of a kind the most pure and innocent. The necessary 
purposes of life might have been abundantly answered, though 
our senses of seeing and hearing had only served to distinguish 
external objects, without conveying to us any of those refined 
and delicate sensations of Beauty and Grandeur, with which 
we are now so much delighted. This additional embellishment 
and glory, which, for promoting our entertainment, the Author 
of Xature hath poured forth upon his works, is one striking 
testhnony, among many others, of benevolence and goodness. 
This thought, which Mr. Addison first started, Dr. Akenside, 
in his Poem on the Pleasures of the Imagination, has happily 
pursued. 

Vot content 
With every food of life to nourish man, 
By kind illusions of the wondering sense, 
Thou mak'st all nature, Beauty to his eye, 
Or Music to his ear. 

I shall begin with considering the pleasure which arises 
from Sublimity or Grandeur, of which I propose to treat at 
Borne lenorfh ; 'both, as this has a character more precise and 



26 SUBLIMITY IN OBJECTS. [LECT. III. 

distinctly marked than any other of the Pleasures of the 
Imagination, and as it coincides more directly with our main 
subject. For the greater distinctness I shall, first, treat of the 
Grandeur or Sublimity of external objects themselves, which 
will employ the rest of this Lecture ; and afterwards, of the 
description of such objects, or of what is called the Sublime 
in Writing, which shall be the subject of a following Lecture. 
I distinguish these two things from one another, the Grandeur 
of the objects themselves when they are presented to the eye, 
and the description of that Grandeur in discourse or writing ; 
though most critics, inaccurately I think, blend them together ; 
and I consider Grandeur and Sublimity as terms synonymous, 
or nearly so. If there be any distinction between them, it arises 
from Sublimity's expressing Grandeur in its highest degree.* 

It is not easy to describe, in words, the precise impression 
which great and sublime objects make upon us when we be- 
hold them, but every one has a conception of it. It produces 
a sort of internal elevation and expansion; it raises the mind 
much above its ordinary state ; and fills it with a degree of 
wonder and astonishment, which it cannot well express. The 
emotion is certainly delightful, but it is altogether of the serious 
kind ; a degree of awfulness and solemnity, even approaching to 
severity, commonly attends it when at its height; very distin- 
guishable from the more gay and brisk emotion raised by beauti- 
ful objects. 

The simplest form of external Grandeur appears in the vast 
and boundless prospects presented to us by nature, such as 
wide extended plains, to which the eye can see no limits ; the fir- 
mament of heaven ; or the boundless expanse of the ocean. All 
vastness produces the impression of Sublimity. It is to be 
remarked, however, that space, extended in length, makes not 
so strong an impression as height or depth. Though a bound- 
less plain be a grand object, yet a high mountain, to which we 
look up, or an awful precipice or tower whence we look down 
on the objects which lie below, is still more so. The exces- 
sive Grandeur of the firmament arises from its height, joined 
to its boundless extent ; and that of the ocean, not from its 
extent alone, but from the perpetual motion and irresistible 
force of that mass of waters. Wherever space is concerned, it 
is clear, that amplitude or greatness of extent, in one dimension 
or other, is necessary to Grandeur. Remove all bounds from 
any object, and you presently render it sublime. Hence in- 
finite space, endless numbers, and eternal duration, fill the mind 
with great ideas. 

From this some have imagined, that vastness, or amplitude 
of extent, is the foundation of all Sublimity. But I cannot 
be of this opinion, because many objects appear sublime which 

* See a Philosophical Inquiry into the Origin of our Ideas of the Sublime and 
Beautiful. Dr. Gerard on Taste, Section II. Elements of Criticism, chap. iv. 



LECT. III.] SUBLIMITY IN OBJECTS. 21 

have no relation to space at all. Such, for instance, is great 
loudness of sound. The burst of thunder or of cannon, the 
roaring of winds, the shouting of multitudes, the sound of vast 
cataracts of water, are all incontestably grand objects. " I 
heard the voice of a great multitude, as the sound of many 
waters . and of mighty thunderings, saying, Allelujah." In ge- 
neral we may observe, that great power and force exerted, 
always raise sublime ideas ; and perhaps the most copious source 
of these is derived from this quarter. Hence the grandeur of 
earthquakes and burning mountains; of great conflagrations; 
of the stormy ocean, and overflowing waters ; of tempests of 
-wind ; of thunder and lightning, and of all the uncommon vio- 
lence of the elements. Xothing is more sublime than mighty 
power and strength. A stream that runs within its banks is 
a beautiful object ;. but when it rushes down with the impetu- 
osity and noise of a torrent, it presently becomes a sublime 
one. From lions, and other animals of strength, are drawn 
sublime comparisons in poets. A race-horse is looked upon 
with pleasure ; but it is the war-horse " whose neck is clothed 
with thunder," that carries grandeur in its idea. The engage- 
ment of two great armies, as it is the highest exertion of 
human might, combines a variety of sources of the Sublime ; 
and has accordingly been always considered as one of the 
most striking and magnificent spectacles that can either be 
presented to the eye, or exhibited to the imagination in de- 
scription. 

For the farther illustration of this subject, it is proper to 
remark, that all ideas of the solemn and awful kind, and even 
bordering on the terrible, tend greatly to assist the Sublime ; 
such as darkness, solitude, and silence. What are the scenes 
of nature that elevate the mind in the highest degree, and pro- 
duce the sublime sensation ? Xot the gay landscape, the 
flowery field, or the flourishing city ; but the hoary mountain, 
and the solitary lake ; the aged forest, and the torrent falling 
over the rock. Hence, too, night scenes are commonly the 
most sublime. The firmament, when filled with stars, scat- 
tered in such vast numbers, and with such magnificent profusion, 
strikes the imagination with a more awful grandeur, than when 
we view it enlightened with all the splendour of the sun. The 
deep sound of a great bell, or the striking of a great clock, are at 
any time grand ; but, when heard amid the silence and stillness 
of the night, they become doubly so. Darkness is very com- 
monly applied for adding Sublimity to all our ideas of the Deity. 
4; He maketh darkness his pavilion; he dwelleth in the thick 
cloud. 5? So Milton : 

How oft, amidst 
Thick clouds and dark, does Heaven's all ruling Sire 
Choose to reside, his glory unobscured 
And, with the Majesty of darkness, round 

Circles his throne. Book II. 263. 

E 2 



28 SUBLIMITY IN OBJECTS. [LECT. III. 

Observe, with how much art Virgil has introduced all those 
ideas of silence, vacuity, and darkness, when he is going to 
introduce his Hero to the infernal regions, and to disclose the 
secrets of the great deep. 

Dii quibus imperium est animarum, umbraeque silentes, 
Et Chaos, et Phlegethon, loca nocte silentia Kite, 
Sit mihi fas audita loqui : sit numine vestro 
Pandere res alta terra, et calligine mersas. 
Ibaat obscuri, sola sub nocte, per umbram, 
Perque domos Ditis vaeuos, et inania regna ; 
Quale per incertam lunam, sub luce maligna 
Est iter in sylvis .* 

These passages I quote at present, not so much as instances 
of Sublime Writing, though in themselves they are truly so, as 
to show, by the effect of them, that the objects which they 
present to us belong to the class of sublime ones. 

Obscurity, we are farther to remark, is not unfavourable to 
the Sublime. Though it render the object indistinct, the im- 
pression, however, may be great ; for as an ingenious author 
has well observed, it is one thing to make an idea clear, and 
another to make it affecting to the imagination ; and the ima- 
gination may be strongly affected, and, in fact, often is so, by 
objects of which we have no clear conception. Thus we see, 
that almost all the descriptions given us of the appearances of 
supernatural Beings, carry some Sublimity, though the con- 
cej^tions which they afford us be confused and indistinct. Their 
sublimity arises from the ideas, which they always convey, of 
superior power and might, joined with an awful obscurity. We 
may see this fully exemplified in the following noble passage 
of the book of Job ; " In thoughts from the visions of the night, 
when deep sleep falleth upon men, fear came upon me, and 
trembling, which made all my bones to shake. Then a spirit 
passed before my face ; the hair of my flesh stood up : it stood 
still; but I could not discern the form thereof; an image was 
before my eyes ; there was silence ; and I heard a voice — Shall 
mortal man be more just than God?"f (Job iv. 15.) No 

* Ye subterranean Gods, whose awful sway 
The gliding ghost and silent shades obey ; 
O Chaos, hear ! and Phlegethon profound ! 
Whose solemn empire stretches wide around ! 
Give me, ye great tremendous powers ! to tell 
Of scenes and wonders in the depths of Hell ; 
Give me your mighty secrets to display, 
From those black realms of darkness to the day. 

Pitt. 
Obscure they went ; through dreary shades that led 
Along the waste dominions of the dead ; 
As wander travellers in woods by night, 
By the moon's doubtful and malignant light. Dryden. 

+ The picture which Lucretius has drawn of the dominion of superstition over man- 
kind, representing it as a portentous spectre showing its head from the clouds, and 
dismaying the whole human race with its countenance, together with the magnanimity 



LECT. III.] SUBLIMITY IN OBJECTS. 29 

ideas, it is plain, are so sublime as those taken from the Supreme 
Being ; the most unknown, but the greatest of all objects ; the 
infinity of whose nature, and the eternity of whose duration, 
joined with the omnipotence of his power, though they surpass 
our conceptions, yet exalt them to the highest. In general, all 
objects that are greatly raised above us, or far removed from us, 
either in space or in time, are apt to strike us as great. Our 
viewing them as through the mist of distance or antiquity, is 
favourable to the impressions of their Sublimity. 

As obscurity, so disorder too, is very compatible with gran- 
deur ; nay, frequently heightens it. Few things that are strictly 
regular and methodical, appear sublime. We see the limits on 
every side ; we feel ourselves confined ; t there is no room for 
the mind's exerting any great effort. Exact proportion of parts, 
though it enters often into the Beautiful, is much disregarded in 
the Sublime. A great mass of rocks, thrown together by the 
hand of nature, with wildness and confusion, strike the mind 
with more grandeur than if they had been adjusted to one 
another with the most accurate symmetry. 

In the feeble attempts which human art can make towards 
producing grand objects, (feeble, I mean, in comparison with 
the powers of nature,) greatness of dimensions always consti- 
tutes a principal part. No pile of building can convey any idea 
of sublimity, unless it be ample and lofty. There is, too, in 
architecture what is called Greatness of manner ; which seems 
chiefly to arise from presenting the object to us in one full point 
of view ; so that it shall make its impression whole, entire, and 
undivided, upon the mind. A Gothic cathedral raises ideas of 
grandeur in our minds, by its size, its height, its awful obscurity, 
its strength, its antiquity, and its durability. 

There still remains to be mentioned one class of Sublime 
objects, which may be called the moral, or sentimental Sublime ; 
arising from certain exertions of the human mind ; from certain 
affections, and actions, of our fellow-creatures. These will be 
found to be all, or chiefly of that class, which comes under the 
head of Magnanimity, or Heroism ; and they produce an effect 
extremely similar to what is produced by the view of grand 
objects in nature ; filling the mind with admiration, and elevating 
it above itself. A noted instance of this, quoted by all the 
French Critics, is the celebrated Qu'il Mourut of Corneille, in 
the Tragedy of Horace. In the famous combat between the 

ef Epicurus in raising himself up against it, carries alL the grandeur of a sublime? 
obscure, and awful image : 

Humana ante oculos fcede cum vita jaceret 

In terris, oppressa gravi sub religione, 

Quae caput coeli regionibus ostendebat, 

Horribili super aspectu mortalibus instans, 

i'rimum Graius homo mortales tollere contra 

Est oculos ausus. Lib- I. 



30 SUBLIMITY IN OBJECTS. [LECT. III. 

Horatii and the Curiatii, the old Horatius, being informed that 
two of his sons are slain, and that the third had betaken himself 
to flight, at first would not believe the report ; but being 
thoroughly assured of the fact, is fired with all the sentiments 
of high honour and indignation, at this supposed unworthy be- 
haviour of his surviving son. He is reminded that his son stood 
alone against three, and asked what he wished him to have done? 
— " To have died," — he answers. In the same manner Porus, 
taken prisoner by Alexander, after a gallant defence, and asked 
how he wished to be treated ? answering, " Like a King ; " and 
Caesar chiding the pilot who was afraid to set out with him in 
a storm, " Quid times ? Caesarem vehis ; " are good instances of 
this sentimental Sublime. Wherever, in some critical and high 
situation, we behold a man uncommonly intrepid, and resting 
upon himself ; superior to passion and to fear; animated by 
some great principle to the contempt of popular opinion, of 
selfish interest, of dangers, or of death ; there we are struck 
with a sense of the sublime.* 

High virtue is the most natural and fertile source of this moral 
Sublimity. However, on some occasions, where Virtue either 
has no place, or is but imperfectly displayed, yet if extraordinary 
vigour and force of mind be discovered, we are not insensible to 
a degree of grandeur in the character; and from the splendid 
conqueror, or the daring conspirator, whom we are far from 
approving, we cannot withhold our admiration, f 

* The Sublime, in natural and moral objects, is brought before us in one view, and 
compared together, in the following beautiful passage of Akenside's Pleasures of the 
Imagination : 

Look then abroad through nature ; to the range 

Of planets, suns, and adamantine spheres, 

Wheeling, unshaken, through the void immense ; 

And speak, O man ! does this capacious scene, 

With half that kindling majesty, dilate 

Thy strong conception, as when Brutus rose 

Refulgent, from the stroke of Caesar's fate, 

Amid the crowd of patriots ; and his arm 

Aloft extending, like eternal Jove, 

When guilt brings down the thunder, call'd aloud 

On Tully's name, and shook his crimson steel, 

And bade the father of his country hail ! 

For lo ! the tyrant prostrate on the dust ; 

And Rome again is free. Book I. 

t Silius Italicus studied to give an august idea of Hannibal, by representing him as 
surrounded with all his victories, in the place of guards. One who had formed a 
design of assassinating him in the midst of a feast, is thus addressed : 

Fallit te, mensas inter quod credis inermem ; 
Tot bellis quaesita viro, tot caedibus, armat 
Majestas aeterna ducem. Si sdmoveris ora 
Cannas, et Trebiam ante oculos, Trasymenaque busta 
Et Pauli stare ingentem miraberis umbram. 

A thought somewhat of the same nature occurs in a French author : " II se cache ; 
mais sa reputation le decouvre : II marche sans suite et sans equipage ; mais chacun, 
dans son esprit, le met sur un char de triomphe. On compte, en le voiant, les ennemis 



LECT. III.] SUBLIMITY IN OBJECTS. 31 

I have now enumerated a variety of instances, both in inani- 
mate objects and in human life, where the Sublime appears. In 
all these instances the emotion raised in us is of the same kind, 
although the objects that produce the emotion be of widely 
different kinds. A question next arises, whether we are able 
to discover some one fundamental quality in which all these 
different objects agree, and which is the cause of their producing 
an emotion of the same nature in our minds ? Various hypo- 
theses have been formed concerning this ; but, as far as appears 
to me, hitherto unsatisfactory. Some have imagined that am- 
plitude or great extent, joined with simplicity, is either imme- 
diately, or remotely, the fundamental quality of whatever is 
sublime ; but we have seen that amplitude is confined to one 
species of Sublime Objects; and cannot, without violent strain- 
ing, be applied to them all. The author of " a Philosophical 
Inquiry into the Origin of our Ideas of the Sublime and Beau- 
tiful," to whom we are indebted for several ingenious and 
original thoughts upon this subject, proposes a formal theory 
upon this foundation; That terror is the source of the Sublime, 
and that no objects have this character but such as produce 
impressions of pain and danger. It is indeed true, that many 
terrible objects are highly sublime ; and that grandeur does not 
refuse an alliance with the idea of danger. But though this is 
very properly illustrated by the Author (many of whose senti- 
ments on that head I have adopted), yet he seems to stretch his 
theory too far, when he represents the Sublime as consisting 
wholly in modes of danger, or of pain. For the proper sensa- 
tion of sublimity appears to be distinguishable from the sensation 
of either of these ; and, on several occasions, to be entirely 
separated from them. In many grand objects, there is no co- 
incidence with terror at all ; as in the magnificent prospect of 
wide extended plains, and of the starry firmament; or in the 
moral dispositions and sentiments, which we view with high 
admiration; and in many painful and terrible objects also, it is 
clear, there is no sort of grandeur. The amputation of a limb, 
or the bite of a snake, are exceedingly terrible ; but are destitute 
of all claim whatever to Sublimity. I am inclined to think, that 
mighty force or power, whether accompanied with terror or not, 
whether employed in protecting or in alarming us, has a better 
title than any thing that has yet been mentioned, to be the 
fundamental quality of the Sublime ; as, after the review which 
we have taken, there does not occur to me any Sublime Object, 
into the idea of which, power, strength, and force, either enter, 
not directly, or are not, at least, intimately associated with the 

qu'il a vaincus, non pas les serviteurs qui le suivent. Tout seul qu'il est, on se figure, 
autour de lui, ses vertus, et ses victoires que l'accompagnent. Moins il est superbe, 
plus il devient venerable." Oraison funebre de M. de Turenne, par M. Flechier. — 
Both these passages are splendid, rather than sublirae. In the first there is a want ot 
justness in the thought ; in the second, of simplicity in the expression. 



32 SUBLIMITY IN WRITING, [LECT. IV. 

idea, by leading our thoughts to some astonishing power, as 
concerned in the production of the object. However, I do not 
insist upon this as sufficient to found a general theory ; it is 
enough to have given this view of the nature and different kinds 
of Sublime Objects ; by which I hope to have laid a proper foun- 
dation for discussing, with greater accuracy, the Sublime in 
Writing and Composition. 



LECTURE IV. 



THE SUBLIME IN WRITING. 



Having treated of Grandeur or Sublimity, in external objects, 
the way seems now to be cleared for treating, with more advan- 
tage, of the description of such objects ; or, of what is called the 
Sublime in Writing. Though I may appear to enter early on 
the consideration of this subject ; yet, as the Sublime is a Species 
of Writing which depends less than any other on the artificial 
embellishments of rhetoric, it may be examined with as much 
propriety here, as in any subsequent part of the Lectures. 

Many critical terms have unfortunately been employed, in a 
sense too loose and vague, none more so than that of the Sublime. 
Every one is acquainted with the character of Caesar's Com- 
mentaries, and of the style in which they are written ; a style 
remarkably pure, simple, and elegant ; but the most remote from 
the Sublime of any of the classical authors. Yet this author has 
a German critic, Johannes Gulielmus Bergerus, who wrote no 
longer ago than the year 1720, pitched upon as the perfect model 
of the Sublime, and has composed a quarto volume, intitled De 
Naturali Pulchritudine Orationis ■; the express intention of which 
is to show, that Caesar's Commentaries contain the most com- 
plete exemplification of all Longinus's rules relating to Sublime 
Writing. This I mention as a strong proof of the confused 
ideas which have prevailed concerning this subject. The true 
sense of Sublime Writing, undoubtedly, is such a description of 
objects, or exhibition of sentiments, which are in themselves of a 
Sublime nature, as shall give us strong impressions of them. 
But there is another very indefinite, and therefore very improper, 
sense, which has been too often put upon it ; when it is applied 
to signify any remarkable and distinguishing excellency of com- 
position ; whether it raise in us the ideas of grandeur, or those 
of gentleness, elegance, or any other sort of beauty. In this 
sense Caesar's Commentaries may, indeed, be termed Sublime, 
and so may many Sonnets, Pastorals, and Love Elegies, as well 



LECT. IV.] SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. 33 

as Homer's Iliad. But this evidently confounds the use of 
words ; and marks no one species, or character, of composition 
whatever. 

I am sorry to be obliged to observe, that the Sublime is too 
often used in this last and improper sense by the celebrated critic 
Longinus, in his treatise on this subject. He sets out, indeed, 
with describing it in its just and proper meaning; as something 
that elevates the mind above itself, and fills it with high con- 
ceptions, and a noble pride. But from this view of it he fre- 
quently departs ;■ and substitutes in the place of it, whatever, in 
any strain of composition, pleases highly. Thus, many of the 
passages which he produces as instances of the Sublime, are 
merely elegant, without having the most distant relation to 
proper Sublimity ; witness Sappho's famous Ode, on which 
he descants at considerable length. He points out five sources 
of the Sublime. The first is, Boldness or Grandeur in the 
Thoughts ; the second is, the Pathetic ; the third, the proper 
application of Figures ; the fourth, the use of Tropes and beau- 
tiful Expressions; the fifth, Musical Structure and Arrange- 
ment of Words* This is the plan of one who was writing a 
treatise of rhetoric, or of the beauties of writing in general ; not 
of the Sublime in particular. For of these five heads, only the 
two first have any peculiar relation to the sublime; Boldness 
and Grandeur in the Thoughts ; and, in some instances, the 
Pathetic, or strong exertions of Passion : the other three, 
Tropes, Figures, and Musical Arrangements, have no more 
relation to the Sublime, than to other kinds of good writing; 
perhaps less to the Sublime than to any other species whatever ; 
because it requires less the assistance of ornament. From this 
it appears, that clear and precise ideas on this head are not to 
be expected from that writer. I would not, however, be under- 
stood, as if I meant, by this censure, to represent his treatise as 
of small value. I know no critic, ancient or modern, that dis- 
covers a more lively relish of the beauties of fine writing, than 
Longinus ; and he has also the merit of being himself an excel- 
lent, and, in several passages, a truly Sublime writer. But, as 
his work has been generally considered as a standard on this 
subject, it was incumbent on me to give my opinion concerning 
the benefit to be derived from it. It deserves to be consulted, 
not so much for distinct instruction concerning the Sublime, as 
for excellent general ideas concerning beauty in writing. 

I return now to the proper and natural idea of the Sublime 
in composition, The foundation of it must always be laid in 
the nature of the object described. Unless it be such an object 
as, if presented to our eyes, if exhibited to us in reality, would 
raise ideas of that elevating, that awful, and magnificent kind, 
which we call Sublime ; the description, however finely drawn, 
is not entitled to come under this class. This excludes all ob- 
jects that are merely beautiful, gay, or elegant. In the next 



34 SUBLIMITY m WEITING. [LECT. IV. 

place, the object must not only, in itself, be sublime, but it must 
be set before us in such a light as is most proper to give us 
a clear. and full impression of it ; it must be described with 
strength, with conciseness, and simplicity. This depends, prin- 
cipally, upon the lively impression which the poet, or orator, 
has of the object which he exhibits ; and upon his being deeply 
affected, and warmed, by the Sublime idea which he would 
convey. If his own feeling be languid, he can never inspire 
us with any strong emotion. Instances, which are extremely 
necessary on this subject, will clearly show the importance of 
all the requisites which I have just now mentioned. 

It is, generally speaking, among the most ancient authors, that 
we are to look for the most striking instances of the Sublime. 
I am inclined to think, that the early ages of the world, and the 
rude unimproved state of society, are peculiarly favourable to 
the strong emotions of Sublimity. The genius of men is then 
much turned to admiration and astonishment. Meeting with 
many objects, to them new and strange, their imagination is 
kept glowing, and their passions are often raised to the utmost. 
They think, and express themselves boldly, and without restraint. 
In the progress of society, the genius and manners of men un- 
dergo a change more favourable to accuracy, than to strength 
or Sublimity. 

Of all writings, ancient or modern, the sacred Scriptures afford 
us the highest instances of the Sublime. The descriptions of 
the Deity, in them, are wonderfully noble. ; both from the gran- 
deur of the object, and the manner of representing it. What 
an assemblage, for instance, of awful and sublime ideas is pre- 
sented to us, in that passage of the eighteenth Psalm, where an 
appearance of the Almighty is described? "In my distress I 
called upon the Lord ; he heard my voice out of his temple, and 
my cry came before him. Then the earth shook and trembled ; 
the foundations also of the hills were moved ; because he was 
wroth. He bowed the heavens and came down, and darkness 
was under his feet ; and he did ride upon a cherub, and did fly : 
yea, he did fly upon the wings of the wind. He made darkness 
his secret plaee ; his pavilion round about him were dark waters, 
and thick clouds of the sky." Here, agreeably to the principles 
established in the last Lecture, we see, with what propriety and 
success the circumstances of darkness and terror are applied for 
heightening the Sublime. So also, the prophet Habakkuk, in a 
similar passage : " He stood, and measured the earth ; he beheld, 
and drove asunder the nations. The everlasting mountains were 
scattered; the perpetual hills did bow ; his ways are everlasting. 
The mountains saw thee ; and they trembled. The overflowing 
of the water passed by. The deep uttered his voice and lifted 
up his hands on high." 

The noted instance, given by Longinus, from Moses, " God 
said, Let there be light ; and there was light ; " is not liable to 



LECT. IV.] SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. 35 

the censure which I passed on some of his instances, of being 
foreign to the subject. It belongs to the true Sublime ; and 
the Sublimity of it arises from the strong conception it gives, of 
an exertion of power, producing its effect with the utmost speed 
and facility. A thought of the same kind is magnificently am- 
plified in the following passage of Isaiah (chap. xliv. 24, 27, 28): 
" Thus saith the Lord, thy Redeemer, and he that formed thee 
from the womb : I am the Lord that maketh all things, that 
stretcheth forth the heavens alone, that spreadeth abroad the 
earth by myself — that saith to the deep, Be dry, and I will dry 
up their rivers ; that saith of Cyrus, He is my shepherd, and 
shall perform all my pleasure ; even saying to Jerusalem, Thou 
shalt be built ; and to the Temple, Thy foundation shall be 
laid." There is a passage in the Psalms, which deserves to be 
mentioned under this head ; " God," says the Psalmist, " stilleth 
the noise of the seas, the noise of their waves, and the tumults 
of the people." The joining together two such grand objects, as 
the raging of the waters, and the tumults of the people, between 
which there is so much resemblance as to form a very natural 
association in the fancy, and the representing them both as 
subject, at one moment, to the command of God, produces a 
noble effect. 

Homer is a poet, who in all ages, and by all critics, has been 
greatly admired for Sublimity ; and he owes much of his gran- 
deur to that native and unaffected simplicity which characterizes 
his manner. His description, of hosts engaging ; the animation, 
the fire, and rapidity, which he throws into his battles, present 
to every reader of the Iliad, frequent instances of Sublime 
Writing. His introduction of the gods, tends often to heighten, 
in a high degree, the .majesty of his warlike scenes. Hence 
Longinus bestows such high and just commendations on that 
passage, in the fifteenth book of the Iliad, where Neptune, when 
preparing to issue forth into the engagement, is described as 
shaking the mountains with his steps, and driving his chariot 
along the ocean. Minerva, arming herself for fight, in the fifth 
book ; and Apollo, in the fifteenth, leading on the Trojans, and 
flashing terror with his ^Egis on the face of the Greeks ; are 
similar instances of great Sublimity added to the description of 
battles, by the appearances of those celestial beings. In the 
twentieth book, where all the god stake part in the engagement, 
according as they severally favour either the Grecians or the 
Trojans, the poet's genius is signally displayed, and the de- 
scription rises into the most awful .magnificence. All nature is 
represented as in commotion. Jupiter thunders in the heavens ; 
Neptune strikes the earth with his Trident ; the ships, the city, 
and the mountains shake ; the earth trembles to its centre ; 
Pluto starts from his throne, in dread lest the secrets of the 
infernal region should be laid open to the views of mortals. The 
passage is worthy of being inserted. 



36 SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. [LECT. IV. 

Avrag stfei [hiS o/m\ov 'OXu/z^/o/ ijXvQov avdguv, 
r floro d'"Eg/g xgaregr), \ao66oog 1 avz d* ' Adqvri, — 
Aug d' "AgYjg sregwdiv, sgs/uvyj ~ka'fha<Ki hog, — 
"fig rovg afMpwrsgovg fiaxcigsg ho) brglvovrzg, 
ibftfiaXov, h d y avroTg 'igidct gyyvvvro fiagzlav. 
Asivbv d' e(Sgovry}6e. ftarrig avdgoov n huv rs 
*T^6dsv ovrag hegde TLofcidawv sriva^s 
TaTav a<7rzigzo~iy)v, ogewv r aitfeiva xdor^a. 
Udvreg d' itffeiovro vrodtg tfoXviribaKov "ihrig, 
K«/ xogvtpat, Tguiuv rs iro'kig, %a) n\zg * Ayaiw. 
"ILddetno~sv V vwhsgdev oiva^ ivsgwv, 'A/dwveug, 
Azitfag d 1 h% Qgovor) aXro, %ai iayt n>y\ o't vtfsgds 
TaTav dvaeorfais TLofciddav svoffiy^duv, 
O/x/'a ds hr\ro7ai %ai aQavaroitii (paveirj 
Ifjjigbaks, svgoozvra, rd rz ffrwysou6i hoi crgg 
To<fffog aga nrvtog (Zgro fooov 'igidi %uviovrwv* 

Iliad, 20, 47, &c. 

The Works of O'ssian (as I have elsewhere shown) abound 
with examples of the Sublime. The subjects of which that 
author treats, and the manner in which he writes, are particu- 
larly favourable to it. He possesses all the plain and venerable 
manner of the ancient times. He deals in no superfluous or 
gaudy ornaments ; but throws forth his images with a rapid 
conciseness, which enables them to strike the mind with the 
greatest force. Among poets of more polished times, we are to 
look for the graces of correct writing, for just proportion of 
parts, and skilfully conducted narration. In the midst of smiling 
scenery and pleasurable themes, the gay and the beautiful 
will appear, undoubtedly, to more advantage. But amidst the 
rude scenes of nature and of society, such as Ossian describes ; 

* But when the powers descending swelled the fight,. 
Then tumult rose, fierce rage, and pale affright ; 
Now through the trerahling shores Minerva calls, ' 
And now she thunders from the Grecian walls. 
Mars hov'ring o'er his Troy, his terror shrouds 
In gloomy tempests, and a night of clouds ; 
Now through each Trojan heart he fury pours, 
With voice divine, from Ilion's topmost towere. — 
Ahove, the Sire of Gods his thunder rolls, 
And peals on peals redoubled rend the poles. 
Beneath, stern Neptune shakes the solid ground, 
The forests wave, the mountains nod around ; 
Through all her summits tremble Ida's woods, 
And from their sources boil her hundred floods- 
Troy's turrets totter on the rocking plain, 
And the tossed navies beat the heaving main. 
Deep in the dismal region of the dead, 
Th' infernal monarch reared his horrid head, ? 
Leapt from his throne, lest Neptune's arms should lay 
His dark dominions open to the day ; 
And pour in light on Pluto's drear abodes, 
Abhorred by men, and dreadful ev'n to Gods. 
Such wars th' immortal wage ; such horrors rend 
The world's vast concave, when the Gods contend. Pops. 



LECT. IV.] SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. 37 

amidst rocks, and torrents, and whirlwinds, and battles, dwells 
the Sublime ; and naturally associates itself with that grave and 
solemn spirit which distinguishes the author of Fingal. "As 
autumn's dark storms pour from two echoing hills, so toward 
each other approached the heroes. As two dark streams from 
high rocks meet and mix, and roar on the plain : loud, rough, 
and dark, in battle, met Lochlin and Inisfail ; chief mixed his 
strokes with chief, and man with man. Steel clanging sounded 
on steel. Helmets are cleft on high ; blood bursts, and smokes 
around. As the troubled noise of the ocean when roll the waves 
on high; as the last peal of the thunder of heaven ; such is the 
noise of battle. The groan of the people spread over the hills. 
It was like the thunder of night, when the cloud burst on Con a, 
and a thousand ghosts shriek at once on the hollow wind." 
Never were images of more awful Sublimity employed to 
heighten the terror of battle. 

I have produced these instances, in order to demonstrate that 
conciseness and simplicity are essential to Sublime Writing. 
Simplicity I place in opposition to studied and profuse orna- 
ment ; and conciseness, to superfluous expression. The reason 
why a defect either in conciseness or simplicity, is hurtful in a 
peculiar manner to the Sublime, I shall endeavour to explain. 
The emotion occasioned in the mind by some great or noble 
object, raises it considerably above its ordinary pitch. A sort of 
enthusiasm is produced, extremely agreeable while it lasts ; but 
from which the mind is tending every moment to fall down into 
its ordinary situation. Now, when an author has brought us, or 
is attempting to bring us, into this state, if he multiplies words 
unnecessarily, if he decks the sublime object which he presents 
to us, round and round, with glittering ornaments : nay if he 
throws in any one decoration that sinks in the least below the 
capital image, that moment he alters the key ; he relaxes the 
tension of the mind ; the strength of the feeling is emasculated ; 
the Beautiful may remain, but the Sublime is gone. — When 
Julius Csesar said to the Pilot, who was afraid to put to sea 
with him in a storm, " Quid times ? Caesarem vehis ; " we are 
struck with the daring magnanimity of one relying with such 
confidence on his cause and his fortune. These few words 
convey every thing necessary to give us the impression full. 
Lucan resolved to amplify and adorn the thought. Observe 
how, every time he twists it round, it departs farther from the 
Sublime, till it end at last in tumid declamation. 

Sperne minas, inquit, pelagi, ventoque furenti 
Trade sinum : Italiam, si, ccelo auctore, recusas, 
Me, pete. Sola tibi causa haec est justa timoris 
Victorem non nosse tuum ; quera numina nunquam 
Destituunt ; de quo male tunc Fortuna meretur 
Cnm post vota venit. Medias perrumpe procellas 
Tutela secure mea. Cceli iste fretique 
Non puppis nostras labor est. Ilunc CES3.are pressam 



38 SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. [LECT. IV. 

A fluctu defendet onus ; nam proderit undis 

Iste ratis : — Quid tanta strage paratur 

Ignoras ? queerit pelagi coelique tumultu 

Quid praestet fortuna mihi.* Phars. v. 578. 

On account of the great importance of simplicity and con- 
ciseness, I conceive rhyme, in English verse, to be, if not in- 
consistent with the Sublime, at least very unfavourable to it. 
The constrained elegance of this . kind of verse, and studied 
smoothness of the sounds, answering regularly to each other 
at the end of the line, though they be quite consistent with 
gentle emotions, yet weaken the native force of Sublimity ; 
besides, that the superfluous words which the poet is often 
obliged to introduce, in order to fill up the rhyme, tend farther 
to enfeeble it. Homer's description of the nod of Jupiter, as 
shaking the heavens, has been admired in all ages, as highly 
Sublime. Literally translated, it runs thus: " He spoke, and 
bending his sable brows, gave the awful nod; while he shook 
the celestial locks of his immortal head, all Olympus was 
shaken." Mr. Pope translates it thus : 

He spoke ; and awful bends his sable brows, 
Shakes bis ambrosial curls, and gives the nod, 
The stamp of fate, and sanction of a God. 
High heaven with trembling the dread signal took, 
And all Olympus to its centre shook. 

The image is spread out and attempted to be beautified ; but 
it is, in truth, weakened. The third line — " The stamp of 
fate, and sanction of a God," is merely expletive ; and intro- 
duced for no other reason but to fill up the rhyme ; for it 
interrupts the description, and clogs the image. For the same 
reason, out of mere compliance with the rhyme, Jupiter is repre- 
sented as shaking his locks before he gives the nod ; -— " Shakes 
his ambrosial curls, and gives the nod," which is trifling, and 

* But Caesar still superior to distress, 
Fearless, and confident of sure success, 
Thus to the pilot loud : — The seas despise, 
And the vain threat'ning of the noisy skies : 
Though Gods deny thee yon Ausonian strand, 
Yet go, I charge you, go, at my command. 
Thy ignorance alone can cause thy fears, 
Thou know'st not what a freight thy vessel bears ; 
Thou know'st not I am he to whom 'tis given, 
Never to want the care of watchful heaven. 
Obedient fortune waits my humble thrall, 
And, always ready, comes before I call. 
Let winds, and seas, loud wars at freedom wage, 
And waste upon themselves their empty rage ; 
A stronger, mightier Daemon is thy friend, 
Thou, and thy bark, on Caesar's fate depend. 
Thou stand'st amazed, to view this dreadful scene, 
And wonder'st what the Gods and Fortune mean ; 
But artfully their bounties thus they raise, 
And from my danger arrogate new praise : 
Amidst the fears of death they bid me live, 
And still enhance what they are sure to give. Roue. 



LECT. IV.] SUBLIMITY IN WKITING. 39 

without meaning. Whereas, in the original, the hair of his head 
shaken, is the effect of his nod, and makes a happy picturesque 
circumstance in the description. # 

The boldness, freedom, and variety of our blank verse, is 
infinitely more favourable than rhyme, to all kinds of Sublime 
poetry. The fullest proof of this is afforded by Milton; an 
author whose genius led him eminently to the Sublime. The 
whole first and second books of Paradise Lost, are continued in- 
stances of it. Take only for an example, the following noted de- 
scription of Satan after his fall, appearing at the head of the 
infernal hosts : 

He, above the rest, 
In shape and gesture proudly eminent, 
Stood like a tower : his form had not yet lost 
All her original brightness, nor appeared 
Less than archangel ruined ; and the excess 
Of glory obscured : As when the sun, new risen, 
Looks through the horizontal misty air, 
Shorn of his beams ; or, from behind the moon, 
In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds 
On half the nations, and with fear of change 
Perplexes monarchs. Darkened so, yet shone 
Above them all, th' Archangel. 

Here concur a variety of sources of the Sublime ; the principal 
object eminently great: a high superior nature, fallen indeed, 
but erecting itself against distress ; the "grandeur of the prin- 
cipal object heightened, by associating it with so noble an idea 
as that of the sun suffering an eclipse ; this picture shaded with 
all those images of change and trouble, of darkness and terror, 
which coincide so finely with the Sublime emotion; and the 
whole expressed in a style and versification, easy, natural, and 
simple, but magnificent. 

I have spoken of simplicity and conciseness as essential to 
Sublime Writing. In my general description of it, I men- 
tioned Strength, as another necessary requisite. The strength 
of description arises, in a great measure, from a simple concise- 
ness ; but, it supposes also something more ; namely, a proper 
choice of circumstances in the description, so as to exhibit the 
object in its full and most striking point of view. For every 
object has several faces, so to speak, by which it may be pre- 
sented to us, according to the circumstances with which we sur- 
round it; and it will appear eminently Sublime, or not, in 
proportion as all these circumstances are happily chosen, and of 
a Sublime kind. Here lies the great art of the writer ; and, in- 
deed, the great difficulty of Sublime description. If the descrip- 
tion be too general, and divested of circumstances, the object 
appears in a faint light ; it makes a feeble impression, or no im- 
pression at all, on the reader. At the same time, if any trivial 
or improper circumstances are mingled the whole is degraded. 

* See Webb, on the Beauties of Poetry j 



40 SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. |_LECT. IV - 

A storm, or tempest, for instance, is a sublime object in 
nature. But to render it Sublime in description, it is not 
enough, either to give us mere general expressions concerning 
the violence of the tempest, or to describe its common vulgar 
effects, in overthrowing trees and houses. It must be painted 
with such circumstances as fill the mind with great and awful 
ideas. This is very happily done by Virgil, in the following 
passage: 

Ipse Pater, media nimborum in nocte, corusca 

Fulmina molitur dextra ; quo maxima motu 

Terra tremit ; fugere ferae ; et mortalia corda 

Per gentes humilis stravit pavor -. Ille flagranti 

Aut Atho, aut Rhodopen, aut alta Ceraunia telo 

Dejicit.* Gf.org. I. 

Every circumstance in this noble description is the production 
of an imagination heated and astonished with the grandeur 
of the object. If there be any defect, it is in the words im- 
mediately following those I have quoted ; " Ingeminant Austri, 
et densissimus imber;" where the transition is made too has- 
tily, I am afraid, from the preceding sublime images, to a 
thick shower, and the blowing of the south wind ; and shows 
how difficult it frequently is, to descend with grace, without 
seeming to fall. 

The high importance of the rule which I have been now 
giving concerning the proper choice of circumstances, when 
description is meant to be Sublime, seems to me not to have 
been sufficiently attended to. It has, however, such a founda- 
tion in nature as renders the least deflexion from it fatal. 
When a writer is aiming at the Beautiful only, his descrip- 
tions may have improprieties in them, and yet be beautiful 
still. Some trivial, or misjudged circumstances can be over- 
looked by the reader ; they make only the difference of more or 
less ; the gay, or pleasing emotion, which he has raised subsists 
still. But the case is quite different with the Sublime. There, 
one trifling circumstance, one mean idea, is sufficient to de- 
stroy the whole charm. This is owing to the nature of the 
emotion aimed at by Sublime description, which admits of no 
niediocritv, and cannot subsist in a middle state; but must 



* The Father of the Gods his glory shrouds, 
Involved in tempests, and a night of clouds: 
And from the middle darkness flashing out, 
By fits he deals his fiery bolts about. 
Earth feels the motions of her angry God, 
Her entrails tremble, and her mountains nod, 
And flying beasts in forests seek abode. 
Deep horror seizes every human breast, 
Their pride is humbled, and their fears confest ; 
While he from high his rolling thunder throws, 
And fires the mountains with repeated blows ; 
The rocks are from their old foundations rent ; 
1 he winds redouble, and (he rains augment. 



iECT. IV.] SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. 41 

either highly transport us, or if unsuccessful in the execution, 
leave us greatly disgusted, and displeased. We attempt to 
rise along with the writer; the imagination is awakened, and 
put upon 'the stretch ; but it requires to be supported ; and if, 
in the midst of its efforts, you desert it unexpectedly, down it 
comes, with a painful shock. "When Milton, in his battle of 
the angels, describes them as tearing up the mountains, and 
throwing them at one another ; there are, in his description, as 
Mr. Addison has observed, no circumstances, but what are 
properly Sublime .* 

From their foundations loos'ning to and fro, 
They pluck the seated hills, with all their load, 
Rocks, waters, woods; and by the shaggy tops 
Uplifting, bore them in their hands. 

Whereas Claudian, in a fragment of the wars of the giants, 
has contrived to render this idea of their throwing the moun- 
tains, which is in itself so grand, burlesque and ridiculous; 
by this single circumstance, of one of his giants with the moun- 
tain Ida upon his shoulders, and a river, which flowed from 
the mountain running down along the giant's back, as he held 
it up in that posture. There is a description too in Virgil, 
which, I think, is censurable, though more slightly, in this 
respect. It is that of the burning mountain ^Etna; a subject 
certainly very proper to be worked up by a poet into a Sub- 
lime description : 

Horrificis juxta tonat JEtna ruinis. 
Interdumque atram prorumpit ad aethera nvibem ; 
Turbine fumantem piceo, et candente fa villa ; 
Attollitque globos flammarum, et sidera lambit. 
Interdum scopulos, avulsaque viscera montis 
Erigit eructans, liquefactaque saxa sub auras 
Cum gemitu glomerat fundoque exsestuat imo.* 

M*. III. 571. 

Here, after several magnificent images, the poet concludes 
with personifying the mountain under this figure, "eructans 
viscera cum gemitu," belching up its bowels with a groan; 
which, by likening the mountain to a sick, or drunk person, 
degrades the majesty of the description. It is to no purpose 
to tell us, that the poet here alludes to the fable of the giant 

* The port capacious, and secure from wind, 
Is to the foot of thund'ring iEtna joined ; 
By turns a pitchy cloud she rolls on high, 
By turns hot embers from her entrails fly, 
And flakes of mounting flames that lick the sky. 
Oft from her bowels massy rocks are thrown, 
And shivered by the force, come piece-meal down : 
Oft liquid lakes of burning sulphur flow, 
Fed from the fiery springs that boil below. Dryden. 

In this translation of Dryden's, the debasing circumstance to which I object in the 
original, is, with propriety, omitted. 



42 SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. [lECT. IV. 

Enceladus lying under Mount ^Etna; and that he supposes 
his motions and tossings to have occasioned the fiery eruptions. 
He intended the description of a Sublime object ; and the na- 
tural ideas raised by a burning mountain are infinitely more 
lofty than the belchings of any giant, how huge soever. The 
debasing effect of the idea which is here presented, will appear 
in a stronger light, by seeing what figure it makes in a poem 
of Sir Richard Blackmore's, who, through a monstrous perversity 
of taste, had chosen this for the capital circumstance in his 
description, and thereby (as Dr. Arbuthnot humorously observes, 
in his Treatise on the Art of Sinking) had represented the 
mountain as in a fit of the cholic. 

^tnaand all the burning mountains, find 
Their kindled stores with inbred storms of wind 
Blown up to rage, and roaring out, complain, 
As torn with inward gripes and torturing puin ; 
Labouring, they cast their dreadful vomit round, 
And with their melted bowels spread the ground. 

Such instances show how much the Sublime depends upon a just 
selection of circumstances ; and with how great care every 
circumstance must be avoided, which by bordering in the least 
upon the mean, or even upon the gay or the trifling, alters the 
tone of the emotion. 

If it shall now be inquired, what are the proper sources of the 
Sublime ? My answer is, That they are to be looked for every 
where in nature. It is not by hunting after tropes and figures, and 
rhetorical assistances, that we can expect to produce it. No : it 
stands clear for the most part of these laboured refinements 
of art. It must come unsought, if it comes at all; and be 
the natural offspring of a strong imagination. 

Est Deus in nobis ; agitante calescimus illo. 

Wherever a great and awful object is presented in nature, or 
a very magnanimous and exalted affection of the human mind 
is displayed ; thence, if you can catch the impression strongly, 
and exhibit it warm and glowing, you may draw the Sublime. 
These are its only proper sources. In judging of any striking 
beauty in composition, whether it is, or is not to be referred 
to this class, we must attend to the nature of the emotion 
which it raises ; and only if it be of that elevating, solemn, and 
awful kind, which distinguishes this feeling, we can pronounce 
it Sublime. 

From the account which I have given of the nature of the 
Sublime, it clearly follows, that it is an emotion which can never 
be long protracted. The mind, by no force of genius, can be 
kept for any considerable time, so far raised above its common 
tone; but will, of course, relax into its ordinary situation. 
Neither are the abilities of any human writer sufficient to 
furnish a long continuation of uninterrupted Sublime ideas. 



LECT. IV.] SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. 43 

The utmost we can expect is, that this fire of imagination should 
sometimes flash upon us like lightning from heaven, and then 
disappear. In Homer and Milton, this effulgence of genius 
breaks forth more frequently, and with greater lustre than in 
most authors. Shakespeare also rises often into the true Sublime. 
But no author whatever is sublime throughout. Some, indeed, 
there are, who, by a strength and dignity in their conceptions, 
and a current of high ideas that runs through their whole com- 
position, preserve the reader's mind always in a tone nearly 
allied to the Sublime ; for which reason they may, in a limited 
sense, merit the name of continued Sublime writers ; and in this 
class we may justly place Demosthenes and Plato. 

As for what is called the Sublime style, it is, for the most 
part, a very bad one ; and has no relation whatever to the 
real Sublime. Persons are apt to imagine that magnificent 
words, accumulated epithets, and a certain swelling kind of 
expression, by rising above what is usual or vulgar, contri- 
butes to, or even forms, the Sublime. Nothing can be more 
false. In all the instances of Sublime Writing, which I have 
given, nothing of this kind appears. " God said, Let there 
be light, and there was light." This is striking and Sublime. 
But put it into what is commonly called the Sublime style : 
" The Sovereign Arbiter of nature, by the potent energy of a 
single word, commanded the light to exist;" and, as Boileau 
has well observed, the style indeed is raised, but the thought 
is fallen. In general, in all good writing, the Sublime lies in 
the thought, not in the words ; and when the thought is truly 
noble, it will, for the most part, clothe itself in a native dignity 
of language. The Sublime, indeed, rejects mean, low, or trivial 
expressions ; but it is equally an enemy to such as are turgid. 
The main secret of being Sublime, is to say great things in few 
and plain words. It will be found to hold, without exception, 
that the most sublime authors are the simplest in their style ; 
and wherever you find a writer, who affects a more than ordinary 
pomp and parade of words, and is always endeavouring to 
magnify his subject by epithets, there you may immediately 
suspect, that feeble in sentiment, he is studying to support him- 
self by mere expression. 

The same unfavourable judgment we must pass on all that 
laboured apparatus with which some writers introduce a pas- 
sage, or description, which they intend shall be sublime ; calling 
on their readers to attend, invoking their muse, or breaking 
forth into general, unmeaning exclamations, concerning the 
greatness, terribleness, or majesty of the object, which they 
are to describe, Mr. Addison, in his Campaign, has fallen 
into an error of this kind, when about to describe the battle of 
Blenheim : 

But ! my Muse, what numbers wilt thou find 
To sing the furious troops in battle joined ? 
F 2 



44 SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. [LECT. IV. 

Methinks, I hear the drums tumultuous sound, 

The victor's shouts, and dying groans confound ; &c. 

Introductions of this kind, are a forced attempt in a writer to spur 
up himself, and his reader, when he finds his imagination begin 
to flag. It is like taking artificial spirits in order to supply the 
want of such as are natural. By this observation, however, I do 
not mean to pass a general censure on Mr. Addison's Campaign, 
which, in several places, is far from wanting merit; and, in 
particular, the noted comparison of his hero to the angel who 
rides in the whirlwind and directs the storm, is a truly Sublime 
image. 

The faults opposite to the Sublime are chiefly two; the 
Frigid, and the Bombast. The Frigid consists, in degrading 
an object^ or sentiment, which is sublime in itself, by our 
mean Conception of it; or by our weak, low, and childish 
description of it. This betrays entire absence, or at least 
great poverty of genius. Of this there are abundance of 
examples, and these commented upon with much humour, in 
the treatise on the Art of Sinking, in Dean Swift's works : the 
instances taken chiefly from Sir Richard Blackmore. One of 
these I had occasion already to give, in relation to Mount 
jJEtna, and it were needless to produce any more. The Bom- 
bast lies, in forcing an ordinary or trivial object out of its 
rank, and endeavouring to raise it into the Sublime ; or, in at- 
tempting to exalt a Sublime object beyond all natural and 
reasonable bounds. Into this error, which is but too common, 
writers of genius may sometimes fall, by unluckily losing sight 
of the true point of the Sublime. This is-also called Fustian, or 
Rant. Shakespeare, a great but incorrect genius, is not un- 
exceptionable here. Dryden and Lee, in their tragedies, abound 
with it. 

Thus far of the Sublime; of which I have treated fully, 
because it is so capital an excellency in fine writing, and because 
clear and precise ideas on this head are, as far as I know, not to 
be met with in critical writers. 

Before I conclude this Lecture, there is one observation which 
I choose to make at this time ; I shall make it once for all, and 
hope it will be afterwards remembered. It is with respect to 
the instances of faults, or rather blemishes and imperfections, 
which, as I have done in this Lecture, I shall hereafter continue 
to take, when I can, from writers of reputation. I have not the 
least intention thereby to disparage their character in general. 
I shall have other occasions of doing equal justice to their 
beauties. But it is no reflection on any human performance, 
that it is not absolutely perfect. The task would be much 
easier for me, to collect instances of faults from bad writers. 
But they would draw no attention, when quoted from books 
which nobody reads. And I conceive, that the method which I 
follow, will contribute more to make the best authors be read 



LECT. V.] BEAUTY. 45 

with pleasure, when one properly distinguishes their beauties 
from their faults ; and is led to imitate and admire only what is 
worthy of imitation and admiration. 

1 



LECTUKE V. 

BEAUTY, AND OTHER PLEASURES OF TASTE. 

As Sublimity constitutes a particular character of compo- 
sition, and forms one of the highest excellencies of eloquence 
and of poetry, it was proper to treat of it at some length. It 
will not be necessary to discuss so particularly all the other 
pleasures that arise from Taste, as some of them have less 
relation to our main subject. On Beauty only I shall make 
several observations, both as the subject is curious, and as it 
tends to improve Taste, and to discover the foundation of se- 
veral of the graces of description and of poetry.* . - 

Beauty, next to Sublimity, affords, beyond doubt, the highest 
pleasure to the imagination. The emotion which it raises is very 
distinguishable from that of Sublimity. It is of a calmer kind ; 
more gentle and soothing ; does not elevate the mind so much, 
but produces an agreeable serenity. Sublimity raises a feeling, 
too violent, as I showed to be lasting ; the pleasure arising from 
Beauty admits of longer continuance. It extends also to a much 
greater variety of objects than sublimity ; to a variety indeed so 
great, that the feelings which beautiful objects produce, differ 
considerably, not in degree only, but also in kind, from one 
another. Hence, no word in the language is used in a more 
vague signification than Beauty. It is applied to almost every 
external object that pleases the eye, or the ear ; to a great 
number of the graces of writing ; to many dispositions of the 
mind; nay, to several objects of mere abstract science. We 
talk currently of a beautiful tree or flower ; a beautiful poem ; 
a beautiful character ; and a beautiful theorem in mathematics. 

Hence we may easily perceive, that, among so great a variety 
of objects, to find out some one quality in which they all agree, 
and which is the foundation of that agreeable sensation they all 
raise, must be a very difficult, if not more probably a vain 
attempt. Objects denominated Beautiful, are so different, as to 
please, not in virtue of any one quality common to them all, but 
by means of several different principles in human nature. The 

* See Hutchinson's Inquiry concerning Beauty and Virtue. — Gerard on Taste, 
chap. hi. — Inquiry into the Origin of the Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful. — 
Elements of Criticism, chap. iii. — Spectator, vol. vi. — Essay, on the Pleasures of 
Taste. 



46 BEAUTY. [LECT. Y» 

agreeable emotion which they all raise, is somewhat of the same 
nature, and therefore has the common name of Beauty given to 
it ; but it is raised by different causes. 

Hypotheses, however, have been framed by ingenious men, 
for assigning the fundamental quality of Beauty in all objects. 
In particular, uniformity amidst variety, has been insisted on as 
this fundamental quality. For the beauty of many figures, I 
admit that this accounts in a satisfactory manner. But when 
we endeavour to apply this principle to beautiful objects of some 
other kind, as to Colour, for instance, or Motion, v^e shall soon 
find that it has no place. And even in external figured objects, 
it does not hold that their Beauty is in proportion to their 
mixture of variety with uniformity ; seeing many please us as 
highly beautiful, which have almost no variety at all ; and others 
which are various to a degree of intricacy. Laying systems of 
this kind, therefore, aside, what I now propose is, to give an 
enumeration of several of those classes of objects in which Beauty 
most remarkably appears ; and to point out, as far as I can, the 
separate principles of Beauty in each of them. 

Colour affords, perhaps, the simplest instance of Beauty, and 
therefore the fittest to begin with. Here, neither variety nor 
uniformity, nor any other principle that. I know, can be assigned, 
as the foundation of Beauty. We can refer it to no other cause 
but the structure of the eye, which determines us to receive 
certain modifications of the rays of light with more pleasure than 
others. And we see accordingly, that, as the organ of sensation 
varies in different persons, they have their different favourite 
colours. It is probable, that association of ideas has- influence, 
in some cases, on the pleasure which we receive from colours. 
Green, for instance, may appear more beautiful, by being con- 
nected in our ideas with rural prospects and scenes ; white, with 
innocence ; blue, with the serenity of the sky. Independent of 
associations of this kind, all that we can farther observe concern- 
ing Colours is, that those chosen for Beauty are generally deli- 
cate, rather than glaring. Such are those paintings with which 
Nature hath ornamented some of her works, and which art 
strives in vain to imitate; as the feathers of several kinds of 
birds, the leaves of flowers, and the fine variation of colours 
exhibited by the sky at the rising and setting of the sun. These 
present to us, the highest instances of the Beauty of colouring ; 
and have accordingly been the favourite subjects of poetical 
description in all countries. 

From Colour we proceed to Figure, which opens to us forms 
of Beauty more complex and diversified. Regularity first occurs 
to be noticed as a source of Beauty. By a regular figure, is 
meant, cne which we perceive to be formed according to some 
certain rule, and not left arbitrary, or loose, in the construction 
of its parts. Thus, a circle, a square, a triangle, or a hexagon, 
please the eye, by their regularity, as beautiful figures. We 



LECT. V.] BEAUTY. 47 

must not, however, conclude that all figures please in proportion 
to their regularity ; or that regularity is the sole, or the chief 
foundation of Beauty in figure. On the contrary, a certain 
graceful variety is found to be a much more powerful principle 
of Beauty; and is therefore studied a great deal more than 
regularity, in all works that are designed merely to please the 
eye. I am, indeed, inclined to think, that regularity appears 
beautiful to us, chiefly, if not only, on account of its suggesting 
the ideas of fitness, propriety, and use, which have always a 
greater connexion with orderly and proportioned forms, than 
with those which appear not constructed according to any certain 
rale. It is clear that Nature, who is undoubtedly the most 
graceful artist, hath, in all her ornamental works, pursued 
variety, with an apparent neglect of regularity. Cabinets, doors, 
and windows, are made after a regular form, in cubes and paral- 
lelograms, with exact proportion of parts ; and by being so 
formed they please the eye ; for this good reason, that, being 
works of use, they are, by such figures, the better suited to the 
ends for which they were designed. But plants, flowers, and 
leaves, are full of variety and diversity. A straight canal is 
an insipid figure, in comparison of the meanders of rivers* 
Cones and pyramids are beautiful ; but trees growing in their 
natural wildness, are infinitely more beautiful than when trim- 
med into pyramids and cones. The apartments of a house must 
be regular in their disposition, for the conveniency of its inhabit- 
ants ; but a garden which is designed merely for beauty, would 
be exceedingly disgusting, if it had as much uniformity and 
order in its parts as a dwelling-house. 

Mr. Hogarth, in his Analysis of Beauty, has observed, that 
figures bounded by curve lines are, in, general, more beautiful 
than those bounded by straight lines and angles. He pitches 
upon two lines, on which, according to him, the beauty of figure 
principally depends ; and he has illustrated and supported his 
doctrine, by a surprising number of instances. The one is the 
Waving Line, or a curve bending backwards and forwards, 
somewhat in the form of the letter S, This he calls the Line of 
Beauty ; and shows how often it is found in shells, flowers, and 
such other ornamental works of nature ; as is common also in 
the figures designed by painters and sculptors, for the purpose of 
decoration. The other line, which he calls the Line of Grace, 
is the former waving curve, twisted round some solid body. 
The curling worm of a common jack is one of the instances he 
gives of it. Twisted pillars and twisted horns also exhibit it. 
> In all the instances which he mentions, variety plainly appears 
to be so material a principle of Beauty, that he seems not to err 
much when he defines the art of drawing pleasing forms, to be 
the art of varying well. For the curve line, so much the favour- 
ite of painters, derives, according to him, its chief advantage 



48 BEAUTY* [LECT. V. 

from its perpetual bending and variation from the stiff regularity 
of the straight line. 

Motion furnishes another source of Beauty, distinct from 
figure. Motion of itself is pleasing ; and bodies in motion are, 
"ceteris paribus/' preferred to those in rest. It is, however, 
only gentle motion that belongs to the Beautiful; for when it is 
very swift or very forcible, such as that of a torrent, it partakes 
of the Sublime. The motion of a bird gliding through the air 
is extremely beautiful ; the swiftness with which lightning darts 
through the heavens is magnificent and astonishing. And here 
it is proper to observe, that the sensations of Sublime and 
Beautiful are not always distinguished by very distant bound- 
aries ; but are capable, in several instances, of approaching 
towards each other. Thus, a smooth running stream, is one of 
the most beautiful objects in nature : as it swells gradually into 
a great river, the Beautiful, by degrees, is lost in the Sublime. 
A young tree is a beautiful object ; a spreading ancient oak is 
a venerable and a grand one. The calmness of a fine morning is 
beautiful ; the universal stillness of the evening is highly sub- 
lime. But to return to the beauty of motion, it will be found, I 
think, to hold very generally, that motion in a straight line is not 
so beautiful as in an undulating waving direction ; and motion 
upwards is, commonly too, more agreeable than motion down- 
wards. The easy curling motion of flame and smoke may be 
instanced, as an object singularly agreeable ; and here Mr. 
Hogarth's waving line recurs upon us as a principle of Beauty. 
That artist observes, very ingeniously, that all the common and 
necessary motions for the business of life are performed by men 
in straight or plain lines ; but that all the graceful and ornamental 
movements are made in waving lines ; an observation not un- 
worthy of being attended to by all who study the grace of 
gesture and action. 

Though Colour, Figure, and Motion, be separate principles 
of Beauty ; yet in many beautiful objects ihey all meet, and 
thereby render the Beauty both greater and more complex. 
Thus in flowers, trees, animals, we are entertained at once with 
the delicacy of the colour, with the gracefulness of the figure, 
and sometimes also with the motion of the object. Although 
each of these produce a separate agreeable sensation, yet they 
are of such a similar nature as readily to mix and blend in one 
general perception of Beauty, which we ascribe to the whole 
object as its cause : for Beauty is always conceived by us as 
something residing in the object which raises the pleasant sen- 
sation ; a sort of glory which dwells upon, and invests it. 
Perhaps the most complete assemblage of beautiful objects that 
can any where be found, is presented by a rich natural landscape, 
where there is a sufficient variety of objects : fields in verdure, 
scattered trees and flowers, running water, and animals grazing. 
If to these be joined some of the productions of art which suit 



LECT. V.] BEAUTY. 49 

such a scene, as a bridge with arches over a river, smoke rising 
from cottages in the midst of trees, and the distant view of a 
fine building seen by the rising sun ; we then enjoy, in the 
highest perfection, that gay, cheerful, and placid sensation which 
characterizes Beauty. To have an eye and a taste formed for 
catching the peculiar beauties of such scenes as these, is a ne- 
cessary requisite for all who attempt poetical description. 

The Beauty of the human countenance is more complex than 
any that we have yet considered. It includes the Beauty of 
colour, arising from the delicate shades of the complexion ; and 
the Beauty of figure, arising from the lines which form the 
different features of the face. But the chief Beauty of the 
countenance depends upon a mysterious expression which it 
conveys of the qualities of the mind : of good sense, or good 
humour; of sprightliness, candour, benevolence, sensibility, or 
other amiable dispositions* How it comes to pass, that a certain 
conformation of features is connected in our idea with certain 
moral qualities ; whether we are taught by instinct, or by ex- 
perience, to form this connexion, and to read the mind in the 
countenance; belongs not to us now to inquire, nor is indeed 
easy to resolve. The fact is certain and acknowledged, that 
what gives the human countenance its most distinguishing 
Beauty, is what is called its expression ; or an image, which 
it is conceived to show of internal moral dispositions. 

This leads us to observe, that there are certain qualities of the 
mind, which, whether expressed in the countenance, or by words, 
or by actions, always raise in us a feeling similar to that of 
Beauty. There are two great classes of moral qualities ; one is 
of the high and great virtues, which require extraordinary 
efforts, and turn upon dangers and sufferings ; as heroism, mag- 
nanimity, contempt of pleasures, and contempt of death. These, 
as I have observed in a former lecture, excite in the spectator 
an emotion of Sublimity and Grandeur. The other class is 
generally of the social virtues, and such as are of a softer and 
gentler kind ; as compassion, mildness, friendship, and generosity. 
These raise in the beholder a sensation of pleasure, so much akin 
to that produced by beautiful external objects, that though of a 
more dignified nature, it may without impropriety, be classed 
under the same head. 

A species of beauty, distinct from any I have yet mentioned, . 
arises from design or art ; or, in other words, from the percep- 
tion of means being adapted to an end ; or the parts of any thing 
being well fitted to answer the design of the whole. When in 
considering the structure of a tree, or a plant, we observe how 
all the parts, the roots, the stem, the bark, and the leaves,, are 
suited to the growth and nutriment of the whole ; much more 
when we survey all the parts and members of a living animal ; 
or when we examine any of the curious works of art, such as a 
clock, a ship, or any nice machine ; the pleasure which we have 



50 BEAUTY. [LECT. V. 

in the survey, is wholly founded on this sense of Beauty. It is 
altogether different from the perception of Beauty produced by 
colour, figure, variety, or any of the causes formerly mentioned. 
When I look at a watch, for instance, the case of it, if finely 
engraved and of curious workmanship, strikes me as Beautiful in 
the former sense ; bright colour, exquisite polish, figures finely 
raised and turned. But when I examine the spring and the 
wheels, and praise the beauty of the internal machinery ; my 
pleasure then arises wholly from the view of that admirable art 
with which so many various and complicated parts are made to 
unite for one purpose. 

This sense of Beauty, in fitness and design, has an extensive 
influence over many of our ideas. It is the foundation of the 
Beauty which we discover in the proportion of doors, windows, 
arches, pillars, and all the orders of architecture. Let the orna- 
ments of a building be ever so fine and elegant in themselves, 
yet if they interfere with this sense of fitness and design, they 
lose their Beauty, and hurt the eye like disagreeable objects. 
Twisted columns, for instance, are undoubtedly ornamental ; 
but as they have an appearance of weakness, they always dis- 
please when they are made use of to support any part of a build- 
ing that is massy, and that seems to require a more substantial 
prop. We cannot look upon any work whatever, without being 
led, by a natural association of ideas, to think of its end and 
design ; and of course to examine the propriety of its parts, in 
relation to this design and end. When their propriety is clearly 
discerned, the work seems always to have some Beauty ; but 
when there is a total want of propriety, it never fails of appearing 
deformed. Our sense of fitness and design, therefore, is so 
powerful, and holds so high a rank among our perceptions, as to 
regulate, in a great measure, our other ideas of Beauty : an 
observation which I the rather make, as it is of the utmost im- 
portance that all who study composition should carefully attend 
to it. For in an epic poem, a history, an oration, or any work 
of genius, we always require, as we do in other works, a fitness, 
or adjustment of means, to the end which the author is supposed 
to have in view. Let his descriptions be ever so rich, or his 
figures ever so elegant, yet if they are out of place, if they are 
not proper parts of that whole, if they suit not the main design, 
they lose all their Beauty; nay, from Beauties they are con- 
verted into Deformities. Such power has our sense of fitness 
and congruity, to produce a total transformation of an object 
whose appearance otherwise would have been beautiful. 

After having mentioned so many various species of Beauty, 
it now only remains to take notice of Beauty as it is applied 
to writing or discourse ; a term commonly used in a sense 
altogether loose and undetermined. For it is applied to all that 
pleases, either in style or in sentiment, from whatever principle 
that pleasure flows ; and a Beautiful poem or oration means, in 



LECT. V.] BEAUTY. 51 

common language, no other than a good one, or one well com- 
posed. In this sense, it is plain, the word is altogether indefi- 
nite, and points at no particular species or kind of Beauty. 
There is, however, another sense, somewhat more definite, in 
which Beauty of writing characterizes a particular manner ; 
when it is used to signify a certain grace and amenity, in the 
turn either of style or sentiment, for which some authors have 
been peculiarly distinguished. In this sense, it denotes a man- 
ner neither remarkably sublime, nor vehemently passionate, nor 
uncommonly sparkling ; but such as raises in the reader an emo- 
tion of the gentle placid kind, similar to what is raised by the 
contemplation of beautiful objects in nature ; which neither lifts 
the mind very high, nor agitates it very much, but diffuses over 
the imagination an agreeable and pleasing serenity. Mr. Addi- 
son is a writer altogether of this character ; and is one of the 
most proper and precise examples that can be given of it. 
Fenelon, the author of the Adventures of Telemachus, may be 
given as another example. Yirgil too, though very capable of 
rising on occasions into the sublime, yet, in his general manner, 
is distinguished by the character of Beauty and Grace, rather 
than of Sublimity. Among orators, Cicero has more of the 
Beautiful than Demosthenes, whose genius led him wholly to- 
wards vehemence and strength. 

This much it is sufficient to have said upon the subject of 
Beauty. "We have traced it through a variety of forms ; as 
next to Sublimity, it is the most copious source of the pleasures 
of Taste ; and as the consideration of the different appearances, 
and principles of Beauty, tends to the improvement of Taste in 
many subjects. 

But it is not only by appearing under the forms of Sublime 
or Beautiful, that objects delight the imagination. From sev- 
eral other principles also they derive their power of giving it 
pleasure. 

Novelty, for instance, has been mentioned by Mr. Addison, * 
and by every writer on this subject. An object which has no 
merit to recommend it, except its being uncommon or new, by 
means of this quality alone, produces in the mind a vivid and an 
agreeable emotion. Hence that passion of curiosity, which pre- 
vails so generally among mankind. Objects and ideas which 
have been long familiar, make too faint an impression to give an 
agreeable exercise to our faculties. New and strange objects 
rouse the mind from its dormant state, by giving it a quick and 
pleasing impulse. Hence in a great measure, the entertainment 
afforded us by fiction and romance. The emotion raised by 
Novelty is of a more lively and pungent nature than that pro- 
duced by Beauty ; but much shorter in its continuance. For if 
the object have in itself no charms to hold our attention, the 
shining gloss thrown upon it by Novelty soon wears off. 

Besides Novelty, Imitation is another source of Pleasure to 



52 PLEASURES OF TASTE. [LECT. V. 

Taste. This gives rise to what Mr. Addison terms, the Secondary- 
Pleasures of Imagination ; which form, doubtless, a very exten- 
sive class. For all Imitation affords some pleasure : not only 
the Imitation of beautiful or great objects, by recalling the 
original ideas of Beauty or Grandeur which such objects them- 
selves exhibited; but even objects which have neither Beauty 
nor Grandeur, nay, some which are terrible or deformed, please 
us in a secondary or represented view. 

The Pleasures of Melody and Harmony belong also to Taste. 
There is no agreeable sensation we receive either from Beauty 
or Sublimity, but what is capable of being heightened by the 
power of musical sound. Hence the delight of poetical num- 
bers ; and even of the more concealed and looser measures of 
prose. Wit, Humour, and Ridicule, likewise open a variety of 
Pleasures to Taste, quite distinct from any that we have yet 
considered. 

At present it is not necessary to pursue any further the sub- 
ject of the Pleasures of Taste. I have opened some of the 
general principles ; it is time now to make the application to our 
chief subject. If the question be put, To what class of those 
Pleasures of Taste which I have enumerated, that Pleasure is to 
be referred, which we receive from poetry, eloquence, or fine 
writing ? My answer is, Not to any one, but to them all. This 
singular advantage writing and discourse possess, that they en- 
compass so large and rich a field on all sides, and have power to 
exhibit, in great perfection, not a single set of objects only, but 
almost the whole of those which give Pleasure to Taste and 
Imagination : whether that Pleasure arise from Sublimity, from 
Beauty in its different forms, from Design and Art, from Moral 
Sentiment, from Novelty, from Harmony, from Wit, Humour, 
and Ridicule. To whichsoever of these the peculiar bent of a 
person's Taste lies, from some writer or other, he has it always in 
his power to receive the gratification of it. 

Now this high power which eloquence and poetry possess, of 
supplying Taste and Imagination with such a wide circle of 
pleasures, they derive altogether from their having a greater 
capacity of Imitation and Description than is possessed by any 
other art. Of all the means which human ingenuity has con- 
trived for recalling the images of real objects, and awakening, 
by representation, similar emotions to those which are raised by 
the original, none is so full and extensive as that which is 
executed by words and writing. Through the assistance of this 
happy invention, there is nothing, either in the natural or moral 
world but what can be represented and set before the mind, in 
colours very strong and lively. Hence it is usual among critical 
writers to speak of Discourse as the chief of all the imitative or 
mimetic arts ; they compare it with painting and with sculpture, 
and in many respects prefer it justly before them. 

This style was first introduced by Aristotle in his Poetics ; 



LECT. V.] IMITATION AND DESCRIPTION. 53 

and, since his time, has acquired a general currency amoug 
modern authors. But, as it is of consequence to introduce as 
much precision as possible into critical language, I must observe, 
that this manner of speaking is not accurate. Neither discourse 
in general, nor poetry in particular, can be called altogether 
imitative arts. We must distinguish betwixt Imitation and 
Description, which are ideas that should not be confounded. 
Imitation is performed by means of somewhat that has a natural 
likeness and resemblance to the thing imitated ; and of conse- 
quence is understood by all ; " such are statues and pictures. 
Description, again, is the raising in the mind the conception of 
an object by means of some arbitrary or instituted symbols, 
understood only by those who agree in the institution of them ; 
such are words and writing. Words have no natural resemblance 
to the ideas or objects which they are employed to signify ; but 
a statue or picture has a natural likeness to the original. And 
therefore Imitation and Description differ considerably in their 
nature from each other. 

As far, indeed, as the poet introduces into his work persons 
actually speaking ; and, by the words which he puts into their 
mouths, represents the discourse which they might be supposed 
to hold : so far his art may more accurately be called Imitative : 
and this is the case in all dramatic composition. But, in Narra- 
tive or Descriptive works, it can with no propriety be called so. 
Who, for instance, would call Virgil's Description of a tempest, 
in the first ^Eneid, an Imitation of a storm ? If we heard of the 
Imitation of a battle we might naturally think of some mock 
fight, or representation of a battle on the stage, but would never 
apprehend that it meant one of Homer's Descriptions in the 
Iliad. I admit, at the same time, that Imitation and Description 
agree in their principal effect, of recalling, by external signs, the 
ideas of things which we do not see. But though in this they 
coincide, yet it should not be forgotten, that the terms them- 
selves are not synonymous ; that they import different means of 
effecting the same end ; and of course make different impressions 
on the mind. # 

* Though in the execution of particular parts Poetry is certainly Descriptive rather 
than Imitative, yet there is a qualified sense, in which Poetry, in the general, may be 
termed an Imitative art. The subject of the Poet (as Dr. Gerard has shown in the 
Appendix to his Essay on Taste) is intended to be an Imitation, not of things really 
existing, but of the course of nature ; that is, a feigned representation of such events, 
or such scenes, as, though they never had a being, yet might have existed ; and which, 
therefore, by their probability, bear a resemblance to nature. It was probably in this 
sense that Aristotle termed Poetry a mimetic art. How far either the Imitation or the 
Description which Poetry employs, is superior to the Imitative powers of Painting and 
Music, is well shown by Mr. Harris, in his Treatise on Music, Painting, and Poetry. 
The chief advantage which Poetry or Discourse in general enjoys, is that whereas, by 
the nature of his art, the Painter is confined to the representation of a single moment, 
Writing and Discourse can trace a transaction through its whole progress. That 
moment, indeed, which the Painter pitches upon for the subject of his picture, he may 
be said to exhibit with more advantage than the Poet or Orator ; inasmuch as he sets 
before us, in one view, all the minute concurrent circumstances of the event which 



54 KISE AND PROGRESS OF LANGUAGE. [LECT. VI. 

Whether we consider Poetry in particular, and Discourse in 
general, as Imitative or Descriptive ; it is evident, that their 
whole power in recalling the impressions of real objects, is de- 
rived from the significancy of words. As their excellency flows 
altogether from this source, we must, in order to make way for 
further inquiries, begin at the fountain head. I shall, therefore, 
in the next Lecture, enter upon the consideration of Language : 
of the origin, the progress, and construction of which I purpose 
to treat at some length. 



LECTURE VI. 

RISE AND PROGRESS OF LANGUAGE. 

Having finished my observations on the Pleasures of Taste, 
which we meant to be introductory to the principal subject of 
these Lectures, I now begin to treat of Language ; which is the 
foundation of the whole power of eloquence. This will lead to 
a considerable discussion ; and there are few subjects belonging 
to polite literature which more merit such a discussion. I shall 
first give a History of the Rise and Progress of Language in 
several particulars, from its early to its more advanced periods : 
which shall be followed by a similar History of the Rise and 
Progress of Writing. I shall next give some account of the 
Construction of Language, or the Principles of Universal Gram- 
mar ; and shall, lastly, apply these observations more particularly 
to the English Tongue.* 

Language, in general, signifies the expression of our ideas by 
certain articulate sounds, which are used as the signs of those 
ideas. By articulate sounds are meant those modulations of 

happens in one individual point of time, as they appear in nature ; while Discourse 
is obliged to exhibit them in succession, and by means of a detail, which is in danger of 
becoming tedious, in order to be clear ; or, if not tedious, is in danger of being obscure. 
But to that point of time which he has chosen, the Painter being entirely confined, he 
cannot exhibit various stages of the same action or event ; and he is subject to this 
farther defect, that he can only exhibit objects as they appear to the eye, and can 
very imperfectly delineate characters and sentiments, which are the noblest subjects of 
Imitation or Description. The power of representing these with full advantage, gives 
a high superiority to Discourse and Writing above all other imitative arts. 

* See Dr. Adam Smith's Dissertation on the Formation of Languages. — Treatise of 
the Origin and Progress of Language, in three vols. — Harris's Hermes, or a Philoso- 
phical Inquiry concerning Language and Universal Grammar. — Essai sur l'Origine de3 
Connoissances Humaines, par l'Abbe Condillac. — Principes de Grammaire, par Marsais. 
— Grammaire Generale et Raison6e. — Traite de la Formation Mechanique des Langues, 
par le Presideur de Brosses. — Discours sur ITnegalite parmi les Hommes, par Rous- 
seau. — Grammaire Generale, par Beauzee. — Principes de la Traduction, par Batteux. 
Warburton's Divine Legation of Moses, vol. iii. — Sanctii Minerva, cum notis Perizonii. 
Les Vrais Principes de Langue Francoise, par l'Abbe Girard. 



LECT. VI.] EISE AXD PEOGEESS OF LANGUAGE. 55 

simple voice, or of sound emitted from the thorax, which are 
formed by means of the mouth and its several organs, the teeth, 
the tongue, the lips, and the palate. How far there is any 
natural connection between the ideas of the mind and the sounds 
emitted, will appear from what I have afterwards to offer. But 
as the natural connection can, upon any system, affect only a 
small part of the fabric of Language ; the connexion between 
words and ideas may, in general, be considered as arbitrary and 
conventional, owing to the agreement of men among themselves ; 
the clear proof of which is, that different nations have different 
Languages, or a different set of articulate sounds, which they 
have chosen for communicating their ideas. 

This artificial method of communicating thought we now 
behold carried to the highest perfection. Language is become a 
vehicle by which the most delicate and refined emotions of one 
mind can be transmitted, or, if we may so speak, transfused 
into another. Not only are names given to all objects around 
us, by which means an easy and speedy intercourse is carried 
on for providing the necessaries of life, but all the relations 
and differences among these objects are minutely marked, the 
invisible sentiments of the mind are described, the most ab- 
stract notions and conceptions are rendered intelligible; and 
all the ideas which science can discover, or imagination create, 
are known by their proper names. Nay, Language has 
been carried so far, as to be made an instrument of the most 
refined Luxury. Not resting in mere perspicuity, we require 
ornament also ; not satisfied with having the conceptions of 
others made known to us, we make a farther demand, to have 
them so decked and adorned as to entertain our fancy ; and this 
demand, it is found very possible to gratify. In this state we 
now find Language. In this state it has been found among 
many nations for some thousand years. The object is become 
familiar ; and, like the expanse of the firmament, and other 
great objects, which we are accustomed to behold, we behold it 
without wonder. 

But carry your thoughts back to the first dawn of Language 
among men. Reflect upon the feeble beginnings from which it 
must have arisen, and upon the many and great obstacles which 
it must have encountered in its progress ; and you will find 
reason for the highest astonishment on viewing the height which 
it has now attained. We admire several of the inventions of 
art ; we plume ourselves on some discoveries which have been 
made in latter ages, serving to advance knowledge, and to render 
life comfortable ; we speak of them as the boast of human reason. 
But certainly no invention is entitled to any such degree of 
admiration as that of Language ; which, too, must have been 
the product of the first and rudest ages, if indeed it can be con- 
sidered as a human invention at all. 

Think of the circumstances of mankind when Languages 



56 RISE AND PROGRESS OF LANGUAGE. [LECT. TO. 

began to be formed. They were a wandering scattered race ; 
no society among them except families ; and the family society 
too very imperfect, as their method of living by hunting or pas- 
turage must have separated them frequently from one another. 
In this situation, when so much divided, and their intercourse so 
rare, how could any one set of sounds, or words, be generally 
agreed on as the signs of their ideas ? Supposing that a few, 
whom chance or necessity threw together, agreed by some means 
upon certain signs, yet by what authority could these be pro- 
pagated among other tribes or families, so as to spread and grow 
up into a Language ? One would think, that, in order to any 
Language fixing and extending itself, men must have been pre- 
viously gathered together in considerable numbers ; Society 
must have been already far advanced ; and yet, on the other 
hand, there seems to have been an absolute necessity for Speech, 
previous to the formation of Society. For, by what bond could 
any multitude of men be kept together, or be made to join in 
the prosecution of any common interest, until once, by the inter- 
vention of Speech, they could communicate their wants and 
intentions to one another ? So that, either how Society could 
form itself previously to Language, or how words could rise into 
a Language previously to Society formed, seem to be points 
attended with equal difficulty. And when we consider, farther, 
that curious analogy which prevails in the construction of almost 
all Languages, and that deep and subtle logic on which they are 
founded, difficulties increase so much upon us, on all hands, that 
there seems to be no small reason for referring the first origin 
of all Language to divine teaching or inspiration. 

But supposing Language to have a divine original, we can- 
not, however, suppose, that a perfect system of it was all at 
once given to man. It is much more natural to think, that God 
taught our first parents only such Language as suited their 
present occasions ; leaving them, as he did in other things, 
to enlarge and improve it as their future necessities should re- 
quire. Consequently, those first rudiments of speech must 
have been poor and narrow ; and we are at full liberty to in- 
quire in what manner, and by what steps, Language advanced 
to the state in which we now find it. The history which I am 
to give of this progress, will suggest several things, both curious 
in themselves, and useful in our future disquisitions. 

If we should suppose a period before any words were invented 
or known, it is clear, that men could have no other method 
of communicating to others what they felt, than by the cries of 
passion, accompanied with such motions and gestures as were 
farther expressive of passion, For these are the only signs 
which nature teaches all men, and which are understood by all. 
One who saw another going into some place where he himself 
had been frightened or exposed to danger, and who sought to 
warn his neighbour of the danger, could contrive no other way 



LECT. VI.] OF LANGUAGE. 51 

of doing so, than by uttering those cries, and making those ges- 
tures, which are the signs of fear ; just as two men, at this day, 
would endeavour to make themselves be understood by each 
other, who should be thrown together on a desolate island, igno- 
rant of each other's Language. Those exclamations, therefore, 
which by Grammarians are called interjections, uttered in a 
strong and passionate manner, were, beyond doubt, the first 
elements or beginnings of Speech. 

When more enlarged communications became necessary, and 
names began to be assigned to objects, in what manner can we 
suppose men to have proceeded in this assignation of names, or 
invention of words? Undoubtedly, by imitating, as much as 
they could, the nature of the object which they named, by the 
sound of the name which they gave to it. As a Painter, who 
would represent grass, must employ a green colour; so, in the 
beginnings of Language, one giving a name to any thing harsh 
or boisterous, would of course employ a harsh or boisterous 
sound. He could not do otherwise, if he meant to excite in the 
hearer the idea of that thing which he sought to name. To suppose 
words invented, or names given to things, in a manner purely 
arbitrary, without any ground or reason, is to suppose an effect 
without a cause. There must have always been some motive 
which led to the assignation of one name rather than another : 
and we can conceive no motive which would more generally 
operate upon men in their first efforts towards Language, than a 
desire to paint, by speech, the objects which they named, in 
a manner more or less complete, according as the vocal organs 
had it in their power to effect this imitation. 

Wherever objects were to be named, in which sound, noise, 
or motion, were concerned, the imitation by words was abun- 
dantly obvious. Nothing was more natural, than to imitate, 
by the sound of the voice, the quality of the sound or noise 
which any external object made ; and to form its name accord- 
ingly. Thus, in all languages, we find a multitude of words 
that are evidently constructed upon this principle. A certain 
bird is termed the Cuckoo, from the sound which it emits. 
When one sort of wind is said to whistle, and another to roar ; 
when a serpent is said to hiss ; a fly to buz, and falling timber to 
crash ; when a stream is said to flow, and hail to rattle ; the 
analogy between the word and the thing signified is plainly 
discernible. 

In the names of objects which address the sight only, where 
neither noise nor motion are concerned, and still more in the 
terms appropriated to moral ideas, this analogy appears to fail. 
Many learned men, however, have been of opinion, that though, 
in such cases, it becomes more obscure, yet it is not altogether 
lost ; but that throughout the radical words of all Languages 9 
there may be traced some degree of correspondence with the 

Gt 



58 KISE AND PROGRESS [LECT. VI. 

object signified. With regard to moral and intellectual ideas, 
they remark, that, in every language, the terms significant of 
them, are derived from the names of sensible objects to which 
they are conceived to be analogous ; and with regard to sensible 
objects pertaining merely to sight, they remark, that their most 
distinguishing qualities have certain radical sounds appropriated 
to the expressions of them, in a great variety of Languages. 
Stability, for instance, fluidity, hollo wness, smoothness, gentle- 
ness, violence, &c, they imagine to be painted by the sound of 
certain letters or syllables, which have some relation to those 
different states of visible objects, on account of an obscure resem- 
blance which the organs of voice are capable of assuming to such 
external qualities. By this natural mechanism, they imagine all 
Languages to have been at first constructed, and the roots of 
their capital words formed.^ 

As far as this system is founded in truth, Language appears 
to be not altogether arbitrary in its origin. Among the ancient 
Stoic and Platonic Philosophers, it was a question much agitated, 
" Utrum nomina rerum sint natura, an impositione ? <pvau t) 
Bsai ;" by which they meant, Whether words were merely con- 
ventional symbols; of the rise of which no account could be 
given, except the pleasure of the first inventors of Language ? 
or, Whether there was some principle in nature that led to the 
assignation of particular names to particular objects ? and those 
of the Platonic school favoured the latter opinion, f 

* The Author who has carried hi3 speev.itions on this subject the farthest, is 
the President Des Brosses, in his " Traite de la Formation Mechanique des Langues." 
Some of the radical letters or syllables which he supposes to carry this expressive 
power in most known languages are, St, to signify stability or rest ; Fl, to denote 
fluency ; CI, a gentle descent ; R, what relates to rapid motion ; C, to cavity or 
hollowness, &c. A century before his time, Dr. Wallis, in his Grammar of the English 
Language, had taken notice of these significant roots, and represented it as a peculiar 
excellency of our Tongue, that, beyond all others, it expressed the nature of the objects 
which it named, by employing sounds sharper, softer, weaker, stronger, more obscure, 
or more stridulous, according as the idea which is to be suggested requires. He gives 
various examples. Thus ; words formed upon St, always denote firmness and strength, 
analogous to the Latin sto ; as, stand, stay, staff, stop, stout, steady, stake, stamp, stal- 
lion, stately, &c. Words beginning with Str, intimate violent force, and energy, ana- 
logous to the Greek (rrpwvvvfxi ; as, strive, strength, strike, stripe, stress, struggle, 
stride, stretch, strip, &c. Thr, implies forcible motion ; as, throw, throb, thrust, 
through, threaten, thraldom. Wr, obliquity or distortion ; as, wry, wrest, wreath, 
wrestle, wring, wrong, wrangle, wrath, wrack, &c. Sw, silent agitation, or lateral 
motion ; as, sway, svying, swerve, sweep, swim. SJ, a gentle fall, or less observable 
motion ; as, slide, slip, sly, slit, slow, slack, sling. Sp, dissipation or expansion ; as, 
spread, sprout, sprinkle, split, spill, spring. Terminations in Ash, indicate something 
acting nimbly and sharply ; as, crash, gash, rash, flash, lash, slash. Terminations in 
Ush, something acting more obtusely and dully ; as crush, brush, hush, gush, blush. 
The learned Author produces a great many more examples of the same kind, which 
seem to leave no doubt, that the analogies of sound have had some influence on the for- 
mation of words. At the same time, in all speculations of this kind, there is so much 
room for fancy to operate, that they ought to be adopted with much caution in forming 
any general theory. 

t Vid. Plat, in Cratylo. " Nomina verbaque non posita fortuito, sed quadam vi et 



LECT. VI.] OF LANGUAGE. 59 

This principle, however, of a natural relation between words 
and objects, can only be applied to Language in its most simple 
and primitive state. Though, in every tongue, some remains of 
it, as I have shown above, can be traced, it were utterly in vain 
to search for it throughout the whole construction of any modern 
Language. As the multitude of terms increase in every nation, 
and the immense field of Language is rilled up, words, by a 
thousand fanciful and irregular methods of derivation and com- 
position, come to deviate widely from the primitive character of 
their roots, and to lose all analogy or resemblance in sound to 
the thing signified. In this state we now find Language. 
Words, as we now employ them, taken in the general, may be 
considered as symbols, not as imitations ; as arbitrary, or insti- 
tuted, not natural signs of ideas. But there can be no doubt, I 
think, that Language, the nearer we remount to its rise among 
men, will be found to partake more of a natural expression. 
As it could be originally formed on nothing but imitation, it 
would, in its primitive state, be more picturesque ; much more 
barren, indeed, and narrow in the circle of its terms, than now ; 
but as far as it went, more expressive by sound of the thing 
signified. This, then, may be assumed as one character of 
the first state, or beginnings of Language among every savage 
tribe. 

A second character of Language, in its early state, is drawn 
from the manner in which words were at first pronounced, or 
uttered, by men. Interjections, I showed, or passionate excla- 
mations, were the first elements of speech. Men laboured to 
communicate their feelings to one another, by those expressive 
cries and gestures which nature taught them. After words, 
or names of objects, began to be invented, this mode of speaking, 
by natural signs, could not be all at once disused. For Lan- 
guage, in its infancy, must have been extremely barren; and 
there certainly was a period, among all rude nations, when con- 
versation was carried on by a very few words, intermixed with 
many exclamations and earnest gestures. The small stock of 
words which men as yet possessed, rendered these helps abso- 
lutely necessary for explaining their conceptions ; and rude, un- 
cultivated men, not having always at hand even the few words 
which they knew, would naturally labour to make themselves 

ratione naturae facta esse, P. Nigidius in Grammaticis Commentariis docet ; rem sane 
in philosophise dissertationihus celebrem. In earn rem multa argumenta dicit, cur 
videri possint verba esse naturalia, magis quam arbitraria. Vos, inquit, cum dicimus, 
motu quodam oris conveniente, cum ipsius verbi demonstratione utimur, et lahias sensim 
primores emovemus, ac spiritum atque animam porro versum et ad eos quibus conser- 
mocinamur intendimus. At contra cum dicimus Nos, neque profuso intentoque flatu 
yocis, neque projectis labiis pronunciamus ; sed et spiritum et labias quasi intra nosmet 
ipsos coercemus. Hoc sit idem et in eo quod dicimus, tu, et ego, et mihi, et tibi. Nam 
sicuti cum adnuimus, et abnuimus motus quodam illo vel capitis, veloculorum, a natura 
rei quern significat, non abhorret, ita in his vocibus quasi gestus quidam oris et spiritus 
naturalis est. Eadem ratio est in Grsecis quoque vocibus quam esse in nostris animad- 
vertimus." A. Gellius, Is'oct. Atticae, lib. x. cap. 4. 

g2 



60 RISE AND PROGRESS [LECT. VI. 

understood, by varying their tones of voice, and accompanying 
their tones with the most significant gesticulations they could 
make. At this day, when persons attempt to speak in any Lan- 
guage which they possess imperfectly, they have recourse to all 
these supplemental methods, in order to render themselves more 
intelligible. The plan too, according to which I have shown, 
that Language was originally constructed, upon resemblance and 
analogy, as far as was possible, to the thing signified, would na- 
turally lead men to utter their words with more emphasis and force, 
a3 long as language was a sort of painting by means of sound. 
For all those reasons this may be assumed as a principle, that 
the pronunciation of the earliest Languages was accompanied 
with more gesticulation, and with more and greater inflections 
of voice, than what we now use ; there was more action in it ; 
and it was more upon a crying or singing tone. 

To this manner of speaking, necessity first gave rise. But 
we must observe, that, after this necessity had, in a great mea- 
sure, ceased, by Language becoming, in process of time, more 
extensive and copious, the ancient manner of Speech still sub- 
sisted among many nations ; and what had arisen from neces- 
sity continued to be used for ornament. Wherever there was 
much fire and vivacity in the genius of nations, they were 
naturally inclined to a mode of conversation which gratified 
the imagination so much; for an imagination which is warm 
is always prone to throw both a great deal of action, and a 
variety of tones into discourse. Upon this principle, Dr. 
Warburton accounts for so much speaking by action, as we 
find among the Old Testament Prophets ; as when Jeremiah 
breaks the potter's vessel, in sight of the people; throws a 
book into the Euphrates ; puts on bonds and yokes ; and 
carries out his household stuff; all which, he imagines, might 
be significant modes of expression, very natural in those ages, 
when men were accustomed to explain ^themselves so much 
by actions and gestures. In like manner, among the North- 
ern American tribes, certain motions and actions were found 
to be much used, as explanatory of their meaning, on all their 
great occasions of intercourse with each other ; and by the belts 
and strings of wampum, which they gave and received, they 
were accustomed to declare their meaning, as much as by their 
discourses. 

With regard to inflections of voice, these are so natural, that 
to some nations, it has appeared easier to express different 
ideas, by varying the tone with which they pronounced the 
same word, than to contrive words for all their ideas. This 
is the practice of the Chinese in particular. The number of 
words in their Language is said not to be great; but in 
speaking, they vary each of their words on no less than five 
different tones, by which they make the same word signify five 
different things. This must give a great appearance of music 



LECT. VI.] OF LANGUAGE. 61 

or singing to their Speech. For those inflections of voice, 
which, in the infancy of Language, were no more than harsh 
or dissonant cries, must, as Language gradually polishes, pass 
into more smooth and musical sounds ; and hence is formed, 
what we call, the Prosody of a Language. 

It is remarkable, and deserves attention, that, both in the 
Greek and Roman Languages, this musical and gesticulating 
pronunciation was retained in a very high degree. Without 
having attended to this, we shall be at a loss in understanding 
several passages of the Classics, which relate to the public speak- 
ing, and the theatrical entertainments of the ancients. It appears, 
from many circumstances, that the prosody both of the Greeks 
and Romans was carried much farther than ours, or that they 
spoke with more and stronger inflections of voice than we use. 
The quantity of their syllables was much more fixed than in any 
of the modern Languages, and rendered much more sensible to 
the ear in pronouncing them. Besides quantities, or the differ- 
ence of short and long, accents were placed upon most of their 
syllables, the acute, grave, and circumflex ; the use of which ac- 
cents we have now entirely lost, but which, we know, deter- 
mined the speaker's voice to rise or fall. Our modern pronun- 
ciation must have appeared to them a lifeless monotony. The 
declamation of their orators, and the pronunciation of their 
actors upon the stage, approaching to the nature of a recitative 
in music ; was capable of being marked in notes, and supported 
with instruments ; as several learned men have fully proved. 
And if this was the case, as they have shown, among the Ro- 
mans, the Greeks, it is well known, were still a more musical 
people than the Romans, and carried their attention to tone and 
pronunciation much farther in every public exhibition. Aris- 
totle, in his Poetics, considers the music of Tragedy as one of its 
chief and most essential parts. 

The case was parallel with regard to Gestures: for strong 
tones and animated gestures we may observe always go together. 
Action is treated of by all the ancient critics, as the chief quality 
in every public speaker. The action, both of the orators and 
the players in Greece and Rome, was far more vehement than 
what we are accustomed to. Roscius would have seemed a 
madman to us. Gesture was of such consequence upon the 
ancient stage, that there is reason for believing, that on some 
occasions, the speaking and the acting part were divided, which, 
according to our ideas, would form a strange exhibition ; one 
player spoke the words in the proper tones, while another per- 
formed the corresponding motions and gestures. We learn from 
Cicero, that it was a contest between him and Roscius, whether 
he could express a sentiment in a greater variety of phrases, or 
Roscius in a greater variety of intelligible significant gestures. 
At last gesture came to engross the stage wholly ; for under 
the reigns of Augustus and Tiberius, the favourite entertain- 



62 RISE AND PROGRESS [LECT. VI. 

ment of the public was the pantomime, which was carried or 
entirely by mute gesticulation. The people were moved, and 
wept at it, as much as at Tragedies ; and the passion for it 
became so strong, that laws were obliged to be made for re- 
straining the senators from studying the pantomime art. Now, 
though in declamations and theatrical exhibitions, both tone and 
gesture were, doubtless, carried much farther than in common 
discourse ; yet public speaking of any kind, must, in every 
country, bear some proportion to the manner that is used in 
conversation ; and such public entertainments as I have now 
mentioned, could never have been relished by a nation, whose 
tones and gestures, in discourse, were as languid as ours. 

When the Barbarians spread themselves over the Roman 
empire, these more phlegmatic nations did not retain the accents, 
the tones, and gestures, which necessity at first introduced, and 
custom and fancy afterwards so long supported, in the Greek 
and Roman languages. As the Latin tongue was lost in their 
idioms, so the character of speech and pronunciation began to be 
changed throughout Europe. Nothing of the same attention 
was paid to the music of language, or to the pomp of declamation 
and theatrical action. Both conversation and public speaking 
became more simple and plain, such as we now find it ; without 
that enthusiastic mixture of tones and gestures, which distin- 
guished the ancient nations. At the restoration of Letters the 
genius of Language was so much altered, and the manners of 
the people had become so different, that it was no easy matter 
to understand what the ancients had said, concerning their 
declamations and public spectacles. Our plain manner of speak- 
ing in these northern countries, expresses the passions with 
sufficient energy to move those who are not accustomed to any 
.more vehement manner. But, undoubtedly, more varied tones, 
and more animated motions, carry a natural expression of 
warmer feelings. Accordingly, in different modern languages, 
the prosody of Speech partakes more of music, in proportion to 
the liveliness and sensibility of the people. A Frenchman both 
varies his accents, and gesticulates while he speaks, much more 
than an Englishman. An Italian a great deal more than either. 
Musical pronunciation and expressive gesture, are, to this day, 
the distinction of Italy. 

From the pronunciation of language, let us proceed, in the 
third place, to consider the Style of Language, in its most early 
state, and its progress in this respect also. As the manner in 
which men at first uttered their words, and maintained conver- 
sation, was strong and expressive, enforcing their imperfectly 
expressed ideas by cries and gestures ; so the language which 
they used, could be no other than full of figures and metaphors, 
not correct indeed, but forcible and picturesque. • 

We are apt, upon a superficial view, to imagine that those 
modes of expression which are called Figures of Speech are 



LECT. VI.] OF LANGUAGE. 63 

among the chief refinements of Speech, not invented till after 
language had advanced to its later periods, and mankind were 
brought into a polished state ; and that then they were devised 
by orators and rhetoricians. The contrary of this is the truth. 
Mankind never employed so many Figures of Speech, as when 
they had hardly any words for expressing their meaning. 

For,, first, the want of proper names for every object, obliged 
them to use one name for many ; and, of course, to express 
themselves by comparisons, metaphors;, allusions, and all those 
substituted forms of Speech which render Language figurative. 
~Next, as the objects with which they were most conversant, 
were the sensible, material objects around them, names would 
be given to those objects long before words were invented for 
signifying the dispositions of the mind, or any sort of moral and 
intellectual ideas. Hence the early Language of men being 
entirely made up of words descriptive of sensible objects, it 
became, of necessity, extremely metaphorical. For, to signify 
any desire or passion, or any act or feeling of the mind, they had 
no precise expression which was appropriated to that purpose, 
but were under the necessity of painting the emotion or passion 
which they felt, by allusion to those sensible objects which had 
most relation to it, and which could render it, in some sort, 
visible to others. 

But it was not necessity alone that gave rise to this figured 
style. Other circumstances also, at the commencement of 
Language, contributed to it. In the infancy of all societies, 
men are much under the dominion of imagination and passion. 
They live scattered and dispersed : they are unacquainted with 
the course of things; they are, every day, meeting with new 
and strange objects. Fear and surprise, wonder and astonish- 
ment, are their most frequent passions. Their language will 
necessarily partake of this character of their minds. They will 
be prone to exaggeration and hyperbole. They will be given to 
describe every thing with the strongest colours, and most vehe- 
ment expressions ; infinitely more than men living in the 
advanced and cultivated periods of society, when their imagi- 
nation is more chastened, their passions are more tamed, and a 
wider experience has rendered the objects of life more familiar 
to them. Even the manner in which I before showed that the 
first tribes of men uttered their words, would have considerable 
influence on their style. Wherever strong exclamations, tones, 
and gestures, enter much into conversation, the imagination is 
always more exercised ; a greater effort of fancy and passion is 
excited. Consequently, the fancy, kept awake and rendered 
more sprightly by this mode of utterance, operates upon style, 
and enlivens it more. 

These reasonings are confirmed by undoubted facts. The 
style of all the most early Languages, among nations who are 
in the first and rude periods of Society, is found, without ex- 



64 RISE AND PROGRESS [LECT. VI. 

ception, to be full of figures ; hyperbolical and picturesque in a 
high degree. We have a striking instance of this in the Ameri- 
can languages, which are known, by the most authentic accounts, 
to be figurative to excess. The Iroquois and Illinois carry on 
their treaties and public transactions with bolder metaphors, and 
greater pomp of style, than we use in our poetical productions.* 

Another remarkable instance is, the style of the Old Testa- 
ment, which is carried on by constant allusions to sensible objects. 
Iniquity, or guilt, is expressed by " a spotted garment ;" misery, 
by " drinking the cup of astonishment ;" vain pursuits, by " feed- 
ing on ashes ; " a sinful life, by " a crooked path ; " prosperity, 
by " the candle of the Lord shining on our head ; " and the like, 
in innumerable instances. Hence we have been accustomed to 
call this sort of style the Oriental Style ; as fancying it to be 
peculiar to the nations of the East ; whereas, from the American 
style, and from many other instances, it plainly appears not to 
have been peculiar to any one region or climate ; but to have 
been common to all nations in certain periods of society and 
language. 

Hence we may receive some light concerning that seeming 
paradox, that Poetry is more ancient than Prose. I shall have 
occasion to discuss this point fully hereafter, when I come to 
treat of the Nature and Origin of Poetry. At present, it is 
sufficient to observe, that from what has been said it plainly 
appears, that the style of all language must have been originally 
poetical ; strongly tinctured with that enthusiasm, and that 
descriptive metaphorical expression, which distinguishes Poetry. 

As Language, in its progress, began to grow more copious, 
it gradually lost that figurative style which was its early cha- 
racter. When men were furnished with proper and familiar 
names for every object, both sensible and moral, they were not 
obliged to use so many circumlocutions. Style became more 
precise, and, of course, more simple. Imagination too, in pro- 

* Thus, to give an instance of the singular style of these nations, the Five Nations 
of Canada, when entering on a treaty of peace with us, expressed themselves hy their 
chiefs in the following language : " We are happy in having buried under ground the 
red axe, that has so often been been dyed with the blood of our brethren. Now, in this 
sort, we inter the axe, and plant the tree of Peace. We plant a tree, whose top will 
reach the sun ; and its branches spread abroad, so that it shall be seen afar off. May 
its growth never be stifled and choked ; but may it shade both your country and ours 
with its leaves ! Let us make fast its roots, and extend them to the utmost of your 
colonies. If the French should come to shake this tree, we would know it by the 
motion of its roots reaching into our country. May the Great Spirit allow us to rest 
in tranquillity upon our mats, and never again dig up the axe to cut down the tree of 
Peace. Let the earth be trod hard over it where it lies buried. Let a strong stream 
run under the pit, to wash the evil away out of our sight and remembrance. The fire 
that had long burned in Albany is extinguished. The bloody bed is washed clean, and 
the tears are wiped from our eyes. "We now renew the covenant chain of friendship. 
Let it be kept bright and clean as silver, and not suffered to contract any rust. Let 
not any one pull away his arm from it." These passages are extracted from Cadwalla- 
der Golden 's History of the Five Indian Nations : where it appears, from the authentic 
documents he produces, that such is their genuine style. 



LECT. VII.] OF LANGUAGE. 65 

portion as society advanced, had less influence over mankind. 
The vehement manner of speaking by tones and gestures began 
to be disused. The understanding was more exercised ; the 
fancy, less. Intercourse among mankind becoming more ex- 
tensive and frequent, clearness of style, in signifying their 
meaning to each other, was the chief object of attention. In 
place of Poets, Philosophers became the instructors of men; 
and, in their reasonings on all different subjects, introduced that 
plainer and simpler style of composition, which we now call 
Prose. Among the Greeks, Pherecydes of Scyros, the master 
of Pythagoras, is recorded to have been the first, who, in this 
sense, composed any writing in prose. The ancient metaphori- 
cal and poetical dress of language was now laid aside from the 
intercourse of men, and reserved for those occasions only on 
which ornament was professedly studied. 

Thus I have pursued the History of Language through some 
of the variations it has undergone. I have considered it, in the 
first structure and composition of words ; in the manner of utter- 
ing or pronouncing words; and in the style and character of 
Speech. I have, yet to consider it in another view, respecting 
the order and arrangement of words ; when we shall find a 
progress to have taken place, similar to what I have been now 
illustrating. 



LECTUEE VII. 

RISE AND PROGRESS OF LANGUAGE, AND OF WRITING. 

When we attend to the order in which words are arranged in a 
sentence, or significant proposition, we find a very remarkable 
difference between the ancient and the modern tongues. The 
consideration of this will serve to unfold farther the genius of 
language, and to show the causes of those alterations which it 
has undergone in the progress of society. 

In order to conceive distinctly the nature of that alteration of 
which I now speak, let us go back, as we did formerly, to the 
most early period of language. Let us figure to ourselves a 
savage, who beholds some object, such as fruit, which raises his 
desire, and who requests another to give it to him. Supposing 
our savage to be unacquainted with words, he would in that case, 
labour to make himself be understood by pointing earnestly at 
the object which he desired, and uttering, at the same time, a 
passionate cry. Supposing him to have acquired words, the first 
word which he uttered would, of course, be the name of that 
object. He would not express himself, according to our English 
order of construction, "Give me fruit;" but according to the 



66 PROGRESS OF LANGUAGE. [LECT. VII. 

Latin order, " Fruit give me," " Fructum da mihi ; " for this 
plain reason, that his attention was wholly directed towards fruit, 
the desired object. This was the exciting idea; the object which 
moved him to speak ; and, of course, would be the first named. 
Such an arrangement is precisely putting into words the gesture 
which nature taught the savage to make, before he was ac- 
quainted with words ; and therefore it may be depended upon 
as certain, that he would fall most readily into this arrangement. 

Accustomed now to a different method of ordering our words, 
we call this an inversion, and consider it as a forced and unna- 
tural order of speech. But though not the most logical, it is, 
however, in one view, the most natural order ; because it is the 
order suggested by imagination and desire, which always impel 
us to mention their object in the first place. We might there- 
fore conclude, a priori, that this would be the order in which 
words were most commonly arranged at the beginnings of 
Language ; and accordingly we find, in fact, that, in this order, 
words are arranged in most of the ancient tongues ; as in the 
Greek and the Latin; and it is said also, in the Russian, the 
Sclavonic, the Gaelic, and several of the American tongues. 

In the Latin language, the arrangement which most commonly 
obtains is, to place first in the sentence that word which expresses 
the principal object of the discourse, together with its circum- 
stances ; and afterwards the person, or the thing, that acts upon 
it. Thus Sallust, comparing together the mind and the body : 
" Animi imperio, corporis servitio, magis utimur ;" which order 
certainly renders the sentence more lively and striking than when 
it is arranged according to our English construction : " We make 
most use of the direction of the soul, and of the service of the 
body." The Latin order gratifies more the rapidity of the ima- 
gination, which naturally runs first to that which is its chief 
object; and having once named it, carries it in view throughout 
the rest of the sentence. In the same manner in poetry : 

Justum et tenacem propositi virum, 
Non civiura ardor prava jubentium, 

Non vultus instantis tyranni, 

Mente quatit, solida. 

Every person of taste must be sensible, that here the words are 
arranged with a much greater regard to the figure which the 
several objects make in the fancy, than our English construction 
admits ; which would require the " Justum et tenacem propositi 
virum," though, undoubtedly, the capital object in the sentence, 
to be thrown into the last place. 

I have said, that, in the Greek and Roman Languages, the 
most common arrangement is, to place that first which strikes 
the imagination of the speaker most. I do not, however, pre- 
tend, that this holds without exception. Sometimes regard to 
the harmony of the period requires a different order, and in 



LECT. VII.] PROGRESS OF LANGUAGE. 67 

languages susceptible of so much musical beauty, and pronounced 
with so much tone and modulation as were used by those 
nations, the harmony of periods was an object carefully studied. 
Sometimes, too, attention to the perspicuity, to the force, or 
to the artful suspension of the speaker's meaning, alter this 
order; and produce such varieties in the arrangement, that it 
is not easy to reduce them to any one principle. But, in 
general, this was the genius and character of most of the ancient 
Languages, to give such full liberty to the collocation of words, 
as allowed them to assume whatever order was most agreeable 
to the speaker's imagination. The Hebrew is indeed an excep- 
tion: which, though not altogether without inversions, yet em- 
ploys them less frequently, and approaches nearer to the English 
construction than either the Greek or the Latin. 

All the modern Languages of Europe have adopted a dif- 
ferent arrangement from the ancient. In their prose composi- 
tions, very little variety is admitted in the collocation of words ; 
they are mostly fixed to one order ; and that order is, what may 
be called the Order of the Understanding. They place first in 
the sentence, the person or thing which speaks or acts ; next, its 
action ; and lastly, the object of its action. So that the ideas 
are made to succeed to one another, not according to the degree 
of importance which the several objects carry in the imagination, 
but according to the order of nature and of time. 

An English writer, paying a compliment to a great man, 
would say thus ; " It is impossible for me to pass over in silence 
such remarkable mildness, such singular and unheard-of cle- 
mency, and such unusual moderation, in the exercise of supreme 
power." Here we have first presented to us the person who 
speaks, " It is impossible for me ;" next, what that person is to 
do, " impossible for him to pass over in silence ;" and lastly, the 
object which moves him so to do, " the mildness, clemency, and 
moderation of his patron." Cicero, from whom I have translated 
these words, just reverses this order; beginning with the object, 
placing that first which was the exciting idea in the speaker's 
mind, and ending with the speaker and his action. " Tantum 
mansuetudinem, tarn inusitatam inauditamque clemen«tiam, tan- 
tumque in summa potestate rerum omnium modum, tacitus nullo 
modo praeterire possum." (Orat. pro Marcell.) 

The Latin order is more animated; the English more clear 
and distinct. The Romans generally arranged their words ac- 
cording to the order in which the ideas rose in the speaker's 
imagination. We arrange them according to the order in which 
the understanding directs those ideas to be exhibited, in succes- 
sion, to the view of another. Our arrangement, therefore, 
appears to be the consequence of greater refinement in the art of 
Speech ; as far as clearness in communication is understood to 
be the end of Speech. 

In poetry, where we are supposed to rise above the ordinary 



68 PROGRESS OF LANGUAGE. [LECT. VII. 

style, and to speak the Language of fancy and passion, our 
arrangement is not altogether so limited; but some greater 
liberty is allowed for transposition and inversion. Even there, 
however, that liberty is confined within narrow bounds, in com- 
parison of the ancient Languages. The different modern 
Tongues vary from one another, in this respect. The French 
Language is, of them all, the most determinate in the order 
of its words, and admits the least of inversion, either in prose 
or poetry. The English admits it more. But the Italian re- 
tains the most of the ancient transpositive character; though 
one is apt to think it attended with a little obscurity in the 
style of some of their authors, who deal most in these trans- 
positions. 

It is proper, next to observe, that there is one circumstance in 
the structure of all the modern Tongues, which, if necessary, 
limits their arrangement, in a great measure, to one fixed and 
determinate train. We have disused those differences of ter- 
mination, which, in the Greek and Latin, distinguished the 
several cases of nouns, and tenses of verbs ; and which, thereby, 
pointed out the mutual relation of the several words in a sen- 
tence to one another, though the related words were disjoined, 
and placed in different parts of the sentence. This is an al- 
teration in the structure of Language, of which I shall have 
occasion to say more in the next Lecture. One obvious 
effect of it is, that we have now, for the most part, no way 
left us to show the close relation of any two words to each 
other in meaning, but by placing them close to one another 
in the period. For instance, the Romans could, with pro- 
priety, expi ess. themselves thus: 

Extinctum nympbae crudeli funere Daphnim 
Flebant. 

Because "Extinctum" and " Daphnim," being both in the accu- 
sative case, this showed, that the adjective and the substantive 
were related to each other, though placed at the two extremi- 
ties of the line ; and that both were governed by the active verb 
" Flebant," to which " Nymphae" plainly appeared to be the 
nominative. The different terminations here reduced all into 
order, and made the connection of the several words perfectly 
clear. But let us translate these words literally into English, 
according to the Latin arrangement ; " Dead the nymphs by a 
cruel fate Daphnis lamented ;" and they become a perfect riddle, 
in which it is impossible to find any meaning. 

It was by means of this contrivance, which obtained in almost 
all the ancient Languages of varying the termination of the 
nouns and verbs, and thereby pointing out the concordance, and 
the government of the words, in a sentence, that they enjoyed 
so much liberty of transposition, and could marshal and arrange 
their words in any way that gratified the imagination, or please 



LECT. VII.] PROGRESS OF LANGUAGE. 69 

the ear. When Language came to be modelled by the northern 
nations who overran the empire, they dropped the cases of 
nouns, and the different terminations of verbs, with the more 
ease, because they placed no great value upon the advantages 
arising from such a structure of Language. They were atten- 
tive only to clearness, and copiousness of expression. They 
neither regarded much the harmony of sound, nor sought to 
gratify the imagination by the collocation of words. They studied 
solely to express themselves in such a manner as should exhibit 
their ideas to others in the most distinct and intelligible order. 
And hence, if our Language, by reason of the simple arrange- 
ment of its words, possesses less harmony, less beauty, and less 
force, than the Greek or Latin ; it is, however, in its meaning, 
more obvious and plain. 

Thus I have shown what the natural progress of Language 
has been, in several material articles ; and this account of the 
Genius and Progress of Language lays a foundation for many 
observations, both curious and useful. From what has been 
said in this, and the preceding Lecture, it appears, that Lan- 
guage was, at first, barren in words, but descriptive by the 
sound of these words ; and expressive in the manner of uttering 
them, by the aid of significant tones and gestures : Style was 
figurative and poetical : Arrangement was fanciful and lively. 
It appears, that, in all the successive changes which language 
has undergone, as the world advanced, the understanding has 
gained ground on the fancy and imagination. The progress of 
Language, in this respect, resembles the progress of age in man. 
The imagination is most vigorous and predominant in youth ; 
with advancing years, the imagination cools, and the understand- 
ing ripens. Thus Language, proceeding from sterility to co- 
piousness, hath, at the same time, proceeded from vivacity to 
accuracy ; from fire and enthusiasm, to coolness and precision. 
Those characters of early Language, descriptive sound, vehe- 
ment tones and gestures, figurative style, and inverted arrange- 
ment, all hang together, have a mutual influence on each other; 
and have all gradually given place to arbitrary sounds, calm 
pronunciation, simple style, plain arrangement. Language is 
become, in modern times, more correct, indeed, and accurate ; 
but, however, less striking and animated: in its ancient state, 
more favourable to poetry and oratory ; in its present, to reason 
and philosophy. 

Having finished my account of the Progress of Speech, I pro- 
ceed to give an account of the Progress of Writing, which next 
demands our notice ; though it will not require so full a discus- 
sion as the former subject. 

Next to Speech, Writing is, beyond doubt, the most useful 
art which men possess. It is plainly an improvement upon 
Speech, and therefore must have been posterior to it in order of 
time. At first, men thought of nothing more than communicat- 



70 RISE AND PROGRESS LLECT. VII. 

ing their thoughts to one another, when present, by means of 
words, or sounds, which they uttered. Afterwards, they devised 
this further method, of mutual communication with one another, 
when absent, by means of marks or characters presented to the 
eye, which we call writing. 

Written characters are of two sorts. They are either signs 
for things, or signs for words. Of the former sort, signs for 
things, are the pictures, hieroglyphics, and symbols, employed 
by the ancient nations; of the latter sort, signs for words, 
are the alphabetical characters, now employed by all Europeans. 
These two kinds of writing are g^nerically and essentially 
distinct. 

Pictures were, undoubtedly, the first essay towards Writing. 
Imitation is so natural to man, that, in all ages, and among all 
nations, some methods have obtained, of copying or tracing the 
likeness of sensible objects. Those methods would soon be em- 
ployed by men for giving some imperfect information to others, 
at a distance, of what had happened ; or, for preserving the 
memory of facts which they sought to record. Thus, to signify 
that one man had killed another, they drew the figure of one 
man stretched upon the earth, and of another standing by him 
with a deadly weapon in his hand. We find, in fact, that when 
America was first discovered, this was the only sort of Writ- 
ing known in the kingdom of Mexico. By historical pictures, 
the Mexicans are said to have transmitted the memory of the 
most important transactions of their empire. These, however, 
must have been extremely imperfect records ; and the nations 
who had no other, must have been very gross and rude. 
Pictures could do no more than delineate external events. 
They could neither exhibit the connexions of them, nor describe 
such qualities as were not visible to the eye, nor convey any 
idea of the dispositions, or words of men. 

To supply, in some degree, this defect, there arose, in process 
of time, the invention of what are called, Hieroglyphical Cha- 
racters : which may be considered as the second stage of the 
art of Writing. Hieroglyphics consist in certain symbols, 
which are made to stand for invisible objects, on account of 
an analogy or resemblance which such symbols were supposed 
to bear to the objects. Thus, an eye was the hieroglyphical 
symbol of knowledge ; a circle, of eternity, which has neither 
beginning nor end. Hieroglyphics, therefore, were a more 
refined and extensive species of painting. Pictures delineated 
the resemblance of external visible objects. Hieroglyphics 
painted invisible objects, by analogies taken from the external 
world. 

Among the Mexicans were found some traces of hierogly- 
phical characters, intermixed with their historical pictures. But 
Egypt was the country where this sort of Writing was most 
studied and brought into a regular art. In hieroglyphics was 



LECT. VII. J OF WRITING. 71 

conveyed all the boasted wisdom of their priests. According to 
the properties which they ascribed to animals, or the qualities with 
which the supposed natural objects to be endowed, they pitched 
upon them to be the emblems, or hieroglyphics, of moral objects ; 
and employed them in their Writing for that end. Thus, ingra- 
tiude was denominated by a viper ; imprudence, by a fly ; wisdom, 
by an ant ; victory, by a hawk ; a dutiful child, by a stork ; a man 
universally shunned, by an eel, which they supposed to be found 
in company with no other fish. Sometimes they joined together 
two or more of these hieroglyphical characters ; as a serpent 
with a hawk's head ; to denote nature, with God presiding 
over it. But, as many of those properties of objects which they 
assumed for the foundation of their hieroglyphics, were merely 
imaginary, and the allusions drawn from them were forced and 
ambiguous; as the conjunction of their characters rendered 
them still more obscure, and must have expressed very indis- 
tinctly the connexions and relations of things ; this sort of 
writing could be no other than enigmatical, and confused in 
the highest degree ; and must have been a very imperfect vehicle 
of knowledge of any kind. 

In has been imagined that hieroglyphics were an invention of 
the Egyptian priests, for concealing their learning from common 
view ; and that, upon this account, it was preferred by them to 
the alphabetical method of Writing. But this is certainly a 
mistake. Hieroglyphics were, undoubtedly, employed, at first, 
from necessity, not from choice or refinement; and would 
never have been thought of if alphabetical characters had been 
known. The nature of the invention plainly shows it to have 
one of those gross and rude essays towards Writing which were 
adopted in the early ages of the world ; in order to extend far- 
ther the first method which they had employed of simple 
pictures, or representations of visible objects. Indeed, in after 
times, when alphabetical Writing was introduced into Egypt, 
and the hieroglyphical was, of course, fallen into disuse, it is 
known, that the priests still employed the hieroglyphical cha- 
racters, as a sacred kind of Writing, now become peculiar to 
themselves, and serving to give an air of mystery to their learn- 
ing and religion. In this state, the Greeks found hieroglyphical 
Writing, when they began to have intercourse with Egypt ; and 
some of their writers mistook this use, to which they found it 
applied, for the cause that had given rise to the invention. 

As writing advanced, from pictures of visible objects, to 
hieroglyphics, or symbols of things invisible ; from these latter, 
it advanced, among some nations, to simple arbitrary marks 
which stood for objects, though without any resemblance or 
analogy to the objects signified. Of this nature was the method 
of Writing practised among the Peruvians. They made use 
of small cords, of different colours ; and by knots upon these, 



72 RISE AND PROGRESS [LECT. VII. 

of various sizes, and differently ranged, they contrived signs 
for giving information, and communicating their thoughts, to 
one another. 

Of this nature also, are the written characters which are used 
to this day, through the great empire of China. The Chinese 
have no alphabet of letters, or simple sounds, which compose 
their words. But every single character which they use in 
Writing, is significant of an idea ; it is a mark which stands for 
some one thing or object. By consequence, the number of these 
characters must be immense. It must correspond to the whole 
number of objects or ideas, which they have occasion to ex- 
press; that is, to the whole number of words they employ in 
speech: nay, it must be greater than the number of words ; one 
word, by varying the tone, with which it is spoken, may be 
made to signify several different things. They are said to have 
seventy thousand of those written characters. To read and 
write them to perfection is the study of a whole life, which sub- 
jects learning, among them, to infinite disadvantage ; and must 
have greatly retarded the progress of all science. 

Concerning the origin of these Chinese characters, there have 
been different opinions, and much controversy. According to 
the most probable accounts, the Chinese Writing began, like the 
Egyptians, with pictures, and hieroglyphical figures. These 
figures being, in progress, abbreviated in their form, for the 
sake of writing them easily, and greatly enlarged in their num- 
ber, passed, at length, into those marks or characters which they 
now use, and which have spread themselves through several 
nations of the East. For we are informed, that the Japanese, 
the Tonquinese, and the Coroeans, who speak different languages 
from one another, and from the inhabitants of China, use, how- 
ever, the same written characters with them ; and, by this 
means, correspond intelligibly with each other in Writing, though 
ignorant of the Language spoken in their several countries ; a 
plain proof, that the Chinese characters are, like hieroglyphics, 
independent of Language ; are signs of things, not of words. 

We have one instance of this sort of Writing in Europe. Our 
cyphers, as they are called, or arithmetical figures, 1, 2, 3, 4, 
&c, which we have derived from the Arabians, are significant 
marks precisely of the same nature with the Chinese characters. 
They have no dependence on words ; but each figure denotes an 
object ; denotes the number for which it stands ; and, accord- 
ingly, on being presented to the eye, is equally understood by all 
the nations who have agreed in the use of these cyphers ; by 
Italians, Spaniards, French, and English, however different the 
Languages of those nations are from one another, and whatever 
different names they give, in their respective Languages, to each 
numerical cypher. 

As far, then, as we have yet advanced, nothing has appeared 



LECT. VII.] OF WRITING. 73 

which resembles our letters, or which can be called Writing, in 
the sense we now give to that term. What we have hitherto 
seen, were all direct signs for things, and made no use of the 
medium of sound, or words ; either signs by representation, as 
the Mexican pictures; or signs by analogy, as the Egyptian 
hieroglyphics ; or signs by institution, as the Peruvian knots, 
the Chinese characters, and the Arabian cyphers. 

At length, in different nations, men became sensible of the 
imperfection, the ambiguity, and the tediousness of each of these 
methods of communication with one another. They began to 
consider, that by employing signs which should stand not directly 
for things, but for the words which they used in speech for 
naming these things, a considerable advantage would be gained. 
For they reflected farther, that though the number of words 
in every Language be, indeed, very great, yet the number of 
articulate sounds, which are used in composing these words, is 
comparatively small. The same simple sounds are continually 
recurring and repeated ; and are combined together, in various 
ways, for forming all the variety of words which we utter. 
They bethought themselves, therefore, of inventing signs, not 
for each word, by itself, but for each of those simple sounds which 
we. employ in forming our words; and by joining together a few 
of those signs, they saw that it would be practicable to express, 
in Writing, the whole combinations of sounds which our words 
require. 

The first step in this new progress, was the invention of an 
alphabet of syllables, which probably preceded the invention of 
an alphabet of letters, among some of the ancient nations ; and 
which is said to be retained, to this day, in Ethiopia, and some 
countries of India. By fixing upon a particular mark, or cha- 
racter, for every syllable in the Language, the number of cha- 
racters, necessary to be used in Writing, was reduced within a 
much smaller compass than the number of words in the Lan- 
guage. Still, however, the number of characters was great ; 
and must have continued to render both reading and writing 
very laborious arts. Till, at last, some happy genius arose; 
and tracing the sounds made by the human voice, to their most 
simple elements, reduced them to a very few vowels and con- 
sonants ; and by affixing to each of these the signs, which we 
now call Letters, taught men how, by their combinations, to 
put in writing all the different words, or combinations of sound, 
which they employed in Speech. By being reduced to this 
simplicity, the art of Writing was brought to its highest state of 
perfection.; and, in this state, we now enjoy it in all the countries 
of Europe. 

To whom we are indebted for this sublime and refined dis- 
covery does not appear. Concealed by the darkness of remote 
antiquity, the great inventor is deprived of those honours which 
would still be paid to his memory, by all the lovers of knowledge 

H 



74 RISE AND PROGRESS [LECT. VII. 

and learning. It appears from the books which Moses has 
written, that, among the Jews, and probably among the Egyp- 
tians, letters had been invented prior to his age. The universal 
tradition among the ancients is, that they were first imported into 
Greece by Cadmus the Phoenician ; who, according to the com- 
mon system of chronology, was contemporary with Joshua; 
according to Sir Isaac Newton's system, contemporary with king 
David. As the Phoenicians are not known to have been the 
inventors of any art or science, though, by means of their exten- 
sive commerce, they propagated the discoveries made by other 
nations, the most probable and natural account of the origin of 
alphabetical characters is, that they took rise in Egypt, the first 
civilized kingdom of which we have any authentic accounts, and 
the great source of arts and polity among the ancients. In that 
country, the favourite study of hieroglyphical characters had 
directed much attention to the art of Writing. Their hiero- 
glyphics are known to have been intermixed with abbreviated 
symbols, and arbitrary marks ; whence, at last, they caught the 
idea of contriving marks, not for things merely, but for sounds. 
Accordingly, Plato (in Phsedo) expressly attributes the inven- 
tion of letters to Theuth, the Egyptian, who is supposed to have 
been the Hermes, or Mercury, of the Greeks. Cadmus him- 
self, though he passed from Phoenicia to Greece, yet is affirmed, 
by several of the ancients, to have been originally of Thebes in 
Egypt. Most probably, Moses carried with him the Egyptian 
letters into the land of Canaan ; and there being adopted by 
the Phoenicians, who inhabited part of that country, they were 
transmitted into Greece. 

The alphabet which Cadmus brought into Greece was imper- 
fect, and is said to have contained only sixteen letters. The rest 
were afterwards added, according as signs for proper sounds were 
found to be wanting. It is curious to observe, that the letters 
which we use at this day, can be traced back to this very alpha- 
bet of Cadmus. The Eoman alphabet, which obtains with us, 
and with most of the European nations, is plainly formed on the 
Greek, with a few variations. And all learned men observe, 
that the Greek characters, especially according to the manner in 
which they are formed in the oldest inscriptions, have a remark- 
able conformity to the Hebrew or Samaritan characters, which, 
it is agreed, are the same with the Phoenician, or alphabet of 
Cadmus, Invert the Greek characters from left to right, ac- 
cording to the Phoenician and Hebrew manner of Writing, and 
they are nearly the same. Besides the conformity of figure, the 
names or denominations of the letters, alpha, beta, gamma, 
&c, and the order in which the letters are arranged, in all the 
several alphabets, Phoenician, Hebrew, Greek, and Roman, 
agree so much, as amounts to a demonstration, that they 
were all derived originally from the same source. An inven- 
tion so useful and simple was greedily received by mankind, and 



LECT. VII,] OF WRITING. 75 

propagated with speed and facility through many different nations. 

The letters were, originally, written from the right hand 
towards the left ; that is, in a contrary order to what we now 
practise. This manner of Writing obtained among the Assyr- 
ians, Phoenicians, Arabians, and Hebrews ; and from some very 
old inscriptions, appears to have obtained also among the Greeks. 
Afterwards, the Greeks adopted a new method, writing their 
lines alternately from the right to the left, and from the left to 
the right, which was called Boustrophedon ; or, writing after the 
manner in which oxen plow the ground. Of this, several speci- 
mens still remain ; particularly, the inscription on the famous 
Sigasan monument ; and down to the days of Solon, the legis- 
lator of Athens, this continued to be the common method of 
Writing. At length, the motion from the left hand to the 
right being found more natural and commodious, the practice of 
Writing in this direction prevailed throughout all the countries 
of Europe. 

Writing was long a kind of engraving. Pillars, and tables 
of stone, were first employed for this purpose, and after- 
wards, plates of the softer metals, such as lead. In proportion 
as Writing became more common, lighter and more portable 
substances were employed. The leaves, and the bark of certain 
trees, were used in some countries; and in others, tablets of 
wood, covered with a thin coat of soft wax, on which the impres- 
sion was made with a stylus of iron. In later times, the hides of 
animals, properly prepared, and polished into parchment, were 
the most common materials. Our present method of writing on 
paper, is an invention of no greater antiquity than the fourteenth 
century. 

Thus I have given some account of the progress of these two 
great arts, Speech and Writing ; by which men's thoughts are 
communicated, and the foundation laid for all knowledge and 
improvement. Let us conclude the subject with comparing, in 
a few words, spoken Language and written Language ; or words 
uttered in our hearing, with words represented to the eye; 
where we shall find several advantages and disadvantages to be 
balanced on both sides. 

The advantages of writing above Speech are, that Writing is 
both a more extensive, and a more permanent method of com- 
munication. More extensive ; as it is not confined within the 
narrow circle of those who hear our words ; but by means of 
written characters, we can send our thoughts abroad, and propa- 
gate them through the world ; we can lift our voice, so as to 
speak to the most distant regions of the earth. More perma- 
nent also, as it prolongs this voice to the most distant ages ; it 
gives us the means of recording our sentiments to futurity, and 
of perpetuating the instructive memory of past transactions. It 
likewise affords this advantage to such as read, above such as 
hear, that having the written characters before their eyes, they 

h2 



76 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. [LECT. VIII. 

can arrest the sense of the writer. They can pause, and revolve, 
and compare at their leisure, one passage with another ; whereas, 
the voice is fugitive and passing : you must catch the words the 
moment they are uttered, or you lose them for ever. 

But although these be so great advantages of written Lan- 
guage, that Speech, without Writing, would have been very 
inadequate for the instruction of mankind; yet we must not 
forget to observe, that spoken Language has a great superiority 
over written Language^ in point of energy or force. The voice 
of the living Speaker makes an impression on the mind, much 
stronger than can be made by the perusal of any Writing. The 
tones of voice, the looks and gestures which accompany discourse, 
and which no Writing can convey, render discourse, when it is 
well managed, infinitely more clear, and more expressive, than 
the most accurate Writing. For tones, looks, and gestures, are 
natural interpreters of the sentiments of the mind. They remove 
ambiguities ; they enforce impressions ; they operate on us by 
means of sympathy, which is one of the most powerful instru- 
ments of persuasion. Our sympathy is always awakened more 
by hearing the Speaker, than by reading his works in our closet. 
Hence, though Writing may answer the purposes of mere in- 
struction, yet all the great and high efforts of eloquence must be 
made, by means of spoken, not of written, Language. 



LECTURE VIII. 

STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 

After having given an account of the Rise and Progress of 
Language, I proceed to treat of its Structure, or of General 
Grammar. The structure of Language is extremely artificial ; 
and there are few sciences in which a deeper or more refined 
logic is employed, than in grammar. It is apt to be slighted by 
superficial thinkers, as belonging to those rudiments of know- 
ledge, which were inculcated upon us in our earliest youth. But 
what was then inculcated before we could comprehend its prin- 
ciples, would abundantly repay our study in maturer years ; and 
to the ignorance of it, must be attributed many of those funda- 
mental defects which appear in writing. 

Few authors have written with philosophical accuracy on 
the principles of General Grammar ; and what is more to be 
regretted, fewer still have thought of applying those principles 
to the English. Language. While the French tongue has long 
been an object of attention to many able and ingenious writers 
of that nation, who have considered its construction, and deter- 
mined its propriety with great accuracy, the Genius and Grammar 



LECT. VIII.] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 77 

of the English, to the reproach of the country, have not been 
studied with equal care, or ascertained with the same precision. 
Attempts have been made, indeed, of late, towards supplying 
this defect ; and some able writers have entered on the subject : 
but much remains yet to be done. 

I do not propose to give any system, either of Grammar in 
genera], or of English Grammar in particular. A minute dis- 
cussion of the niceties of Language would carry us too much off 
from other objects, which demand our attention in the course of 
Lectures. But I propose to give a general view of the chief 
principles relating to this subject, in observations on the several 
parts of which Speech or Language is composed ; remarking, as 
I go along, the peculiarities of our own Tongue. After which, 
I shall make some more particular remarks on the Genius of the 
English Language. 

The first thing to be considered, is the division of the several 
parts of Speech. The essential parts of Speech are the same in 
all Languages. There must always be some words which denote 
the names of objects, or mark the subject of discourse; other 
words, which denote the qualities of those objects, and express 
what we affirm concerning them ; and other words, which point 
out their connections and relations. Hence, substantives, pro- 
nouns, adjectives, verbs, prepositions, and conjunctions, must 
necessarily be found in all Languages. The most simple and 
comprehensive division of the parts of Speech is, into substan- 
tives, attributives, and connectives.* Substantives, are all the 
words which express the names of objects, or the subjects of 
discourse ; attributives, are all the words which express any 
attribute, property, or action of the former ; connectives, are 
what express the connections, relations, and dependencies, which 
take place among them. The common grammatical division of 
Speech into eight parts : nouns, pronouns, verbs, participles, 
adverbs, prepositions, interjections, and conjunctions ; is not 
very logical, as might be easily shown ; as it comprehends under 
the general term of nouns, both substantives and adjectives, 
which are parts of Speech generically and essentially distinct ; 
while it makes a separate part of Speech of participles, which 
are no other than verbal adjectives. However, as these are 
the terms to which our' ears have been most familiarized, and as 
an exact logical division is of no great consequence to our present 

* Quinctilian informs us, that this was the most ancient division. "Turn videbit 
quod et quae sunt partes orationis. Quanquam de numero parum convenit. Yeteres 
enim, quorum fuerant Aristoteles atque Theodictes, verba modo, et nomina, et con- 
vinctiones tradiderunt. Videlicet, quod in verbis vim sermonis, in nominibus materiam, 
(quia alterum est quod loquimur, alterum de quo loquimur,) in convinctionibus autem 
complexum eorum esse judicarunt ; quas conjunctiones a plerisque dici scio ; sed haec 
videtur ex (rvvdec/xa magis propria translatio. Paulatim a philosophicis ac maxime a 
stoicis, auctus est numerus ; ac primum convinctionibus articuli adjecti ; post prseposi- 
tiones ; nominibus, appellatio, deinde pronomen ; deinde mistum verbo participium j 
ipsis, verbis, adverbia." Lib. I. cap. iv. 



78 STEUCTTJRE OF LANGUAGE. [LECT. VIII. 

purpose, it will be better to make use of these known terms than 
of any other. 

We are naturally led to begin with the consideration of 
substantive nouns, which are the foundation of all Grammar, 
and may be considered as the most ancient part of Speech. 
For assuredly, as soon as men had got beyond simple interjec- 
tions, or exclamations of passion, and began to communicate 
themselves by discourse, they would be under a necessity of 
assigning names to the objects they saw around them ; which, 
in Grammatical Language, is called the invention of substan- 
tive nouns.* And here, at our first setting out, somewhat 
curious occurs. The individual objects which surround us are 
infinite in number. A savage, wherever he looked, beheld 
forests and trees. To give separate names to every one of those 
trees, would have been an endless and impracticable under- 
taking. The first object was to give a name to that particular 
tree, whose fruit relieved his hunger, or whose shade protected 
him from the sun. But observing that though other trees were 
distinguished from this by peculiar qualities of size or appear- 
ance, yet, that they also agreed and resembled one another in 
certain common qualities, such as springing from a root, and 
bearing branches and leaves, he formed in his mind some gene- 
ral idea of those common qualities, and ranging all that possessed 
them under one class of objects, he called that whole class, a tree. 
Longer experience taught him to subdivide this genus into the 
several species of oak, pine, ash, and the rest, according as his 
observation extended to the several qualities in which these 
trees agreed or differed. 

But, still, he made use of only general terms in Speech. For 
the oak, the pine, and the ash, were names of whole classes of 
objects ; each of which included an immense number of undis- 

* I do not mean to assert, that among all nations, the first invented words were 
simple and regular substantive nouns. Nothing is more difficult than to ascertain the 
precise steps by which men proceeded in the formation of language. Names for objects 
must, doubtless, have arisen in the most early stages of speech. But it is probable, as 
the learned author of the Treatise On the Origin and Progress of Language has shown 
(vol. i. p. 371, 395), that, among several savage tribes, some of the first articulate 
sounds that were formed denoted a whole sentence rather than the name of a parti- 
cular object ; conveying some information, or expressing some desires or fears, suited 
to the circumstances in which that tribe was placed, or relating to the business they had 
most frequent occasion, to carry on ; as, the lion is coming, the river is swelling, &c. 
Many of their first words, it is likewise probable, were not simple substantive nouns, 
but substantives, accompanied with some of those attributes, in conjunction with which 
they were most frequently accustomed to behold them ; as, the great bear, the little 
hut, the wound made by the hatchet, &c. Of all which the author produces instances 
from several of the American languages ; and it is, undoubtedly, suitable to the natural 
course of the operations of the human mind, thus to begin with particulars the most 
obvious to sense, and to proceed from these to more general expressions. He likewise 
observes, that the words of those primitive tongues are far from being, as we might 
suppose them, rude and short, and crowded with consonants ; but, on the contrary, are, 
for the most part, long words, and full of vowels. This is the consequence of their 
being formed upon the natural sounds which the voice utters with the most ease, a 
little varied, and distinguished by articulation; and he shows this to hold in fact, among 
most of the barbarous languages which are known. 



LECT. VIII.] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 79 

tinguished individuals. Here then, it appears, that though the 
formation of abstract, or general conceptions, is supposed to be 
a difficult operation of the mind ; such conceptions must have 
entered into the very first formation of Language. For, if we 
except only the proper names of persons, such as Caesar, John, 
Peter, all the other substantive nouns which we employ in 
discourse are the names, not of individual objects, but of very 
extensive genera, or species of objects; as man, lion, house, 
river, &c. We are not, however, to imagine, that this invention 
of general, or abstract terms, requires any great exertion of 
metaphysical capacity : for, by whatever steps the mind proceeds 
in it, it is certain, that when men have once observed resem- 
blances among objects, they are naturally inclined to call all 
those which resemble one another by one common name ; and of 
course to class them under one species. We may daily observe 
this practised by children, in their first attempts towards acquir- 
ing language. 

But now, after language had proceeded as far as I havede- 
scribed, the notification which it made of objects was still very 
imperfect : for, when one mentioned to another, in discourse, 
any substantive noun, such as man, lion, or tree, how was it to 
be known, which man, which lion, or which tree he meant, among 
the many comprehended under one name ? Here occurs a very 
curious, and a very useful contrivance for specifying the indi- 
vidual object intended, by means of that part of Speech called 
the Article. 

The force of the Article consists, in pointing, or singling out 
from the common mass, the individual of which we mean to 
speak. In English we have two Articles, a and the ; a is more 
general and unlimited; the more definite and special. A is 
much the same with one, and marks only any one individual of 
a species : that individual being either unknown, or left unde- 
termined ; as, a lion, a king. The, which possesses more 
properly the force of the Article, ascertains some known or 
determined individual of the species ; as, the lion, the king,. 

Articles are words of great use in speech. In some languages, 
however, they are not found. The Greeks have but one Article, 
6 77 to, which answers to our definite, or proper Article, the. 
They have no word which answers to our Article a ; but they 
supply its place by the absence of their Article : Thus Bao-£- 
Xevg signifies, a king ; 6 RacriXevg, the king. The Latins have 
no article. In the room of it they employ pronouns, as hie, ille, 
iste, for pointing out the objects which they want to distinguish. 
" Xoster sermo," says Quinctilian, " articulos non desiderata 
ideoque in alias partes orationis. sparguntur." This, however, 
appears to me a defect in the Latin tongue ; as Articles contri- 
bute much to the clearness and precision of language. 

In order to illustrate this, remark what difference there is 
in the meaning of the following expressions in English, depend- 



80 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. [LECT. VIII. 

ing wholly on the different employment of the Articles : u The 
son of a king — The son of the king — A son of the king's." 
Each of these three phrases has an entirely different meaning, 
which I need not explain, because any one who understands the 
language conceives it clearly at first hearing, through the differ- 
ent application of the Articles, a and the. Whereas in Latin, 
"filius regis" is wholly undetermined ; and, to explain in 
which of these three senses it is to be understood, for it may 
bear any of them, a circumlocution of several words must be 
used. In the same manner, " Are you a king ? " " Are you the 
king?" are questions of quite separate import; which, however, 
are confounded together in the Latin phrase, " Esne tu rex ?" 
" Thou art a man," is a very general and harmless position ; but, 
" Thou art the man," is an assertion capable, we know, of strik- 
ing terror and remorse into the heart. These observations illus- 
trate the force and importance of Articles : and, at the same time, 
I gladly lay hold of any opportunity of showing the advantages 
of our own language. 

Besides this quality of being particularized by the Article, 
three affections belong to substantive nouns : number, gender, 
and case, which require our consideration. 

Number distinguishes them as one, or many, of the same 
kind, called the Singular and Plural ; a distinction found in all 
languages, and which must, indeed, have been coeval with the 
very infancy of language ; as there were few things which men 
had more frequent occasion to express, than the difference be- 
tween one and many. For the greater facility of expressing it, 
it has in all languages, been marked by some variation made 
upon the substantive noun ; as we see, in English, our plural is 
commonly formed by the addition of the letter S. In the Hebrew, 
Greek, and some other ancient languages, we find, not only a 
plural but a dual number ; the rise of which may very naturally 
be accounted for, from separate terms of numbering not being 
yet invented, and one, two, and many, being all, or at least the 
chief numeral distinctions which men, at first, had any occasion 
to take notice of. 

Gender is an affection of substantive nouns, which will lead 
us into more discussion than number. Gender being founded 
on the distinction of the two sexes, it is plain, that in a proper 
sense, it can only find place in the names of living creatures,, 
which admit the distinction of male and female ; and, therefore, 
can be ranged under the masculine or feminine genders. All 
other substantive nouns ought to belong to what grammarians 
call the Neuter Gender, which is meant to imply the negation 
of either sex. But, with respect to this distribution, somewhat 
singular hath obtained in the structure of language. For, in 
correspondence to that distinction of male and female sex which 
runs through all the classes of animals, men have, in most lan- 
guages, ranked a great number of inanimate objects also, under 



LECT. VIII.] STKUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 81 

the like distinctions of masculine and feminine. Thus, we find 
it, both in the Greek and Latin tongues : gladius, a sword, for 
instance, is masculine ; sagitta, an arrow, is feminine ; and this 
assignation of sex to inanimate objects, this distinction of them 
into masculine and feminine, appears often to be entirely capri- 
cious ; derived from no other principle than the casual structure 
of the language, which refers to a certain gender, words of a 
certain termination. In the Greek and Latin, however, all 
inanimate objects are not distributed into masculine and femi- 
nine ; but many of them are also classed,* where all of them 
ought to have been, under the neuter gender; as, templum, a 
church; sedile, a seat. 

But the genius of the French and Italian tongues differs, in 
this respect, from the Greek and Latin. In the French and 
Italian, from whatever cause it has happened, so it is, that the 
neuter gender is wholly unknown, and that all their names of 
inanimate objects are put. upon the same footing with living crea- 
tures ; and distributed, without exception, into masculine and 
feminine. The French have two articles, the masculine le, and 
the feminine la; and one or other of these is prefixed to all 
substantive nouns in the language, to denote their gender. The 
Italians make the same universal use of their article il and lo, for 
the masculine ; and la for the feminine. 

In the English language it is remarkable that there obtains a 
peculiarity quite opposite. In the French and Italian there is 
no neuter gender. In the English, when we use common 
discourse, all substantive nouns, that are not names of living 
creatures, are neuter without exception. He, she, and it, are 
the marks of the three genders ; and we always use it, in 
speaking of any object where there is no sex, or where the sex 
is not known, The English is, perhaps, the only language in 
the known world (except the Chinese, which is said to agree 
with it in this particular), where the distinction of gender is 
properly and philosophically applied in the use of words, and 
confined, as it ought to be, to mark the real distinctions of male 
and female. 

Hence arises a very great and signal advantage of the English 
tongue, which it is of consequence to remark. # Though in 
common discourse, as I have already observed, we employ only 
the proper and literal distinction of sexes; yet the genius of 
the language permits us, whenever it will add beauty to our 
discourse, to make the names of inanimate objects masculine 
and feminine in a metaphorical sense ; and when we do so, we 
are understood to quit the literal style, and to use one of the 
figures of discourse. 

For instance: if I am speaking of virtue, in the course of 
ordinary conversation, or of strict reasoning, I refer the word to 

* The following observations on the metaphorical use of genders in the English 
language, are taken from Mr. Harris's Hermes. 



82 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. [LECT. VIII. 

no sex or gender ; I say, " Virtue is its own reward ; " or, " it is 
the law of our nature." But if I choose to rise into a higher 
tone ; if I seek to embellish and animate my discourse, I give a 
sex to virtue ; I say, " She descends from heaven;" "she alone 
confers true honour upon man ;" " her gifts are the only durable 
rewards." By this means, we have it in our power to vary our 
style at pleasure. By making a very slight alteration, we can 
personify any object that we choose to introduce with dignity ; 
and by this change of manner, we give warning, that we are 
passing from the strict and logical to the ornamented and rheto- 
rical style. 

This is an advantage which not only every poet, but every 
good writer and speaker in prose, is, on many occasions, glad to 
lay hold of, and improve ; and it is an advantage peculiar to our 
tongue; no other language possesses it. For, in other languages, 
every word has one fixed gender, masculine, feminine, or neuter, 
which can, upon no occasion, be changed ; aparo, for instance, in 
Greek ; virtus, in Latin ; and la vertu, in French, are uniformly 
feminine. She must always be the pronoun answering to the 
word, whether you be writing in poetry or in prose, whether you 
be using the style of reasoning, or that of declamation : whereas, 
in English, we can either express ourselves with the philoso- 
phical accuracy of giving no gender to things inanimate ; or, by 
giving them gender, and transforming them into persons, we 
adapt them to the style of poetry, and, when it is proper, we 
enliven prose. 

It deserves to be further remarked on this subject, that, when 
we employ that liberty which our language allows, of ascribing 
sex to any inanimate object, we have not, however, the liberty 
of making it what gender we please, masculine or feminine ; but 
are in general subjected to some rule of gender which the cur- 
rency of language has fixed to that object. The foundation of 
that rule is imagined by Mr. Harris, in his "Philosophical 
Inquiry into the Principles of Grammar," to be laid in a certain 
distant resemblance or analogy to the natural distinction of the 
two sexes. 

Thus, according to him, we commonly give the masculine gen- 
der to those substantive nouns used figuratively, which are con- 
spicuous for the attributes of imparting, or communicating; 
which are by nature strong and efficacious, "either to good or 
evil ; or which have a claim to some eminence, whether laudable 
or not. Those, again, he imagines to be generally made femi- 
nine, which are conspicuous for the attributes of containing, and 
of bringing forth; which have more of the passive in their 
nature than of the active; which are peculiarly beautiful or 
amiable : or which have respect to such excesses as are rather 
feminine than masculine. Upon these principles he takes notice, 
that the sun is always put in the masculine gender with us ; the 
moon in the feminine, as being the receptacle of the sun's light. 



LECT. VIII.] STKUCTUKE OF LANGUAGE. 83 

The earth is, universally, feminine. A ship, a country, a city, 
are likewise made feminine, as receivers or containers. God, in 
all Languages, is masculine. Time, we make masculine, on ac- 
count of its mighty efficacy ; virtue, feminine, from its beauty, 
and its being the object of love. Fortune is always feminine. 
Mr. Harris imagines, that the reason which determine the gen- 
der of such capital words as these, hold in most other Languages 
as well as the English. This, however, appears doubtful. A 
variety of circumstances, which seemed casual to us, because we 
cannot reduce them to principles, must, unquestionably, have in- 
fluenced the original formation of Languages ; and in no article 
whatever does Language appear to have been more capricious, 
and to have proceeded less according to fixed rule, than in the 
imposition of gender upon things inanimate; especially among 
such nations as have applied the distinction of masculine and 
feminine to all substantive nouns. 

Having discussed gender, I proceed, next, to another remark- 
able peculiarity of substantive nouns, which, in the style of 
grammar, is called their declension by cases. Let us, first, con- 
sider what cases signify. In order to understand this, it is 
necessary to observe, that, after men had given names to ex- 
ternal objects, had particularized them by means of the article, 
and distinguished them by number and gender, still their Lan- 
guage remained extremely imperfect, till they had derived some 
method of expressing the relations which those objects bore, one 
towards another. They would find it of little use to have a 
name for man, lion, tree, river, without being able, at the same 
time, to signify how these stood with respect to each other; 
whether, as approaching to, receding from, joined with, and the 
like. Indeed, the relations which objects bear to one another 
are immensely numerous; and, therefore, to devise names for 
them all, must have been among the last and most difficult 
refinements of Language. But, in its most early periods, it was 
absolutely necessary to express, in some way or other, such 
relations as were most important, and as occurred most fre- 
quently in common Speech. Hence the genitive, dative, and 
ablative cases of nouns, which express the noun itself together 
with those relations, of, to, from, with, and by ; the relations 
which we have the most frequent occasion to mention. The 
proper idea, then, of cases in declension, is no other than an ex- 
pression of the state, or relation, which one object bears to 
another, denoted by some variation made upon the name of that 
object ; most commonly in the final letters, and by some Lan- 
guages, in the initial. 

All Languages, however, do not agree in. this mode of ex- 
pression. The Greek, Latin, and several other Languages, use 
declension. The English, French, and Italian, do not; or, at 
most, use it very imperfectly. In place of the variations of 
cases, «the modern Tongues express the relations of objects, 



84 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. [LECT. VIII. 

by means of the words called prepositions, which denote those 
relations, prefixed to the name of the object. English nouns 
have no case whatever, except a sort of genitive, commonly 
formed by the addition of the letter s to the noun ; as when we 
say " Dryden's Poems," meaning the poems of Dryden. Our 
personal pronouns have also a case, which answers to the accusa- 
tive of the Latin, /, me, — he, him, — who, whom. There is 
nothing, then, or at least very little, in the Grammar of our 
Language, which corresponds to declension in the ancient 
Languages. 

Two questions, respecting this subject, may be put. First, 
Which of these methods of expressing relations, whether that 
by declension, or that by prepositions, was the most ancient 
usage in Language ? And next, Which of them has the best 
effect ? Both methods, it is plain, are the same as to the sense, 
and differ only in form. For the significancy of the Roman 
Language would not have been altered, though the nouns, 
like ours, had been without cases, provided they had employed 
prepositions : and though, to express a disciple of Plato, they 
had said, " Discipulus de Plato," like the modern Italians, in 
place of " Discipulus Platonis," 

Now, with respect to the antiquity of cases, although they 
may, on first view, seem to constitute a more artificial method 
than the other, of denoting relations, yet there are strong 
reasons for thinking that this was the earliest method practised 
by men. We find, in fact, that declensions and cases are used 
in most of what are called the Mother Tongues, or Original 
Languages, as well as in the Greek and Latin. And a very 
natural and satisfying account can be given why this usage 
should have early obtained. Relations are the most abstract 
and metaphysical ideas of any which men have occasion to form, 
when they are considered by themselves and separated from the 
related object. It would puzzle any man, as has been well 
observed by an author on this subject, to give a distinct account 
of what is meant by such a word as of, or from, when it stands 
by itself, and to explain all that may be included under it. The 
first rude inventors of Language, therefore, would not, for a 
long while, arrive at such general terms. In place of consider- 
ing any relation in the abstract, and devising a name for it, 
they would much more easily conceive it in conjunction with 
a particular object ; and they would express their conceptions of 
it, by varying the name of that object through all the different 
cases: hominis, of a man; homini, to a man; homine, with a 
man, &c. 

But, though this method of declension was, probably, the 
only method which men employed at first for denoting relations, 
yet, in progress of time, many other relations being observed, 
besides those which are signified by the cases of nouns, and men 
also becoming more capable of general and metaphysical ideas} 



LECT. VIII.] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 85 

separate names were gradually invented for all the relations which 
occurred, forming that Part of Speech which we now call Pre- 
positions. Prepositions being once introduced, they were found 
to be capable of supplying the place of cases, by being prefixed 
to the nominative of the noun. Hence it came to pass, that, as 
nations were intermixed by migrations and conquests, and were 
obliged to learn, and adopt the Languages of one another, pre- 
positions supplanted the use of cases and declensions. When 
the Italian Tongue, for instance, sprung out of the Roman, it 
was found more easy and simple, by the Gothic nations, to ac- 
commodate a few prepositions to the nominative of every noun, 
and to say, di Roma, at Roma, di Carthago, al Carthago, than to 
remember all the variety of terminations, Romce, Romam, Car- 
thaginis, Carthaginem, which the use of declensions required in 
the ancient nouns. By this progress we can give a natural 
account how nouns, in our modern Tongues, come to be so void 
of declension : a progress which is fully illustrated in Dr. Adam 
Smith's ingenious Dissertation on the Formation of Languages. 
With regard to the other question on this subject, Which 
of these two methods is of the greater utility and beauty ? we 
shall find advantages and disadvantages to be balanced on both 
sides. There is no doubt, that, by abolishing cases, we have 
rendered the structure of modern Languages more simple. We 
have disembarrassed it of all the intricacy which arose from the 
different forms of declension, of which the Romans have no 
fewer than five ; and from all the irregularities in these several 
declensions. We have thereby rendered our Languages more 
•easy to be acquired, and less subject to the perplexity of rules. 
But, though the simplicity and ease of Language be great and 
.estimable advantages, yet there are also such disadvantages 
attending the modern method, as leave the balance, on the 
whole, doubtful, or rather incline it to the side of antiquity. 

For, in the first place, by our constant use of prepositions for 
expressing the relations of things, we have filled Language with 
a multitude of those little words, which are eternally occurring 
in every sentence, and may be thought thereby to have encum- 
bered Speech ; by an addition of terms ; and, by rendering 
it more prolix, to have enervated its force. In the second place, 
we have certainly rendered the sound of Language less agree- 
able to the ear, by depriving it of that variety and sweetness 
which arose from the length of words, and the change of termi- 
nations, occasioned by the cases in the Greek and Latin. But 
in the third place, the most material disadvantage is, that, by 
this abolition of cases, and by a similar alteration, of which I am 
to speak in the next Lecture, in the conjugation of verbs, we 
have deprived ourselves of that liberty of transposition in the 
arrangement of words, which the ancient Languages enjoyed. 

In the ancient Tongues, as I formerly observed, the different 
terminations, produced by declension and conjugation, pointed 






86 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. [LECT. VIII. 

out the reference of the several words of a sentence to one 
another, without the aid of juxtaposition ; suffered them to be 
placed, without ambiguity, in whatever order was most suited to 
give force to the meaning, or harmony to the sound. But now, 
having none of those marks of relation incorporated with the 
words themselves, we have no other way left us of showing what 
words in a sentence are most closely connected in meaning, than 
that of placing them close by one another in the period. The 
meaning of the sentence is brought out in separate members and 
portions ; it is broken down and divided. Whereas the struc- 
ture of the Greek and Roman sentences, by the government of 
their nouns and verbs, presented the meaning so interwoven and 
compounded in all its parts, as to make us perceive it in one 
united view. The closing words of the period ascertained the 
relation of each member to another ; and all that ought to be 
connected in our idea, appeared connected in the expression. 
Hence, more brevity, more vivacity, more force. That luggage 
of particles (as an ingenious author happily expresses it), which 
we are obliged always to carry along with us, both clogs style, 
and enfeebles sentiment.* 

Pronouns are the class of words most nearly related to sub- 
stantive nouns ; being, as the name imports, representatives, or 
substitutes, of nouns, I, thou, he, she, and it, are no other than 
an abridged way of naming the persons, or objects, with which 
we have immediate intercourse, or to which we are obliged fre- 
quently to refer in discourse. Accordingly, they are subject to the 
same modifications with substantive nouns, of number, gender, and 
case. Only, with respect to gender, we may observe, that the 
pronouns of the first and second person, as they are called, / and 
thou, do not appear to have had the distinctions of gender given 
them in any Language ; for this plain reason, that as they 
always refer to persons who are present to each other when they 
speak, their sex must appear, and therefore needs not be marked 
by a masculine or feminine pronoun. But, as the third person 
may be absent, or unknown, the distinction of gender there be- 



* " The various terminations of the same word, whether verb or noun, are always 
conceived to be more intimately connected with the term which they serve to lengthen, 
than the additional, detached, and in themselves insignificant particles, which we are 
obliged to employ as connectives to our significant words. Our method gives almost 
the same exposure to the one as to the other, making the significant parts, and the insig- 
nificant, equally conspicuous; theirs much oftener sinks, as it were, the former into the 
latter, at [once preserving their use, and hiding their weakness. Our modern Lan- 
guages may, in this respect, be compared to the art of the carpenter in its rudest state ; 
when the union of the materials employed by the artisan, could be effected only by the 
help of those external and course implements, pins, nails, and cramps. The ancient 
Languages resemble the same art in its most improved state, after the invention of dove- 
tail joints, grooves, and mortises ; when thus all the principal junctions are effected, by 
forming, properly, the extremities, or terminations of the pieces to be joined. For, by 
means of these, the union of the parts is rendered closer ; while that by which that 
union is produced is iscarcely perceivable." The Philosophy of Rhetoric, by Dr. 
Campbell, vol. ii. p. 412. 



LECT. VIII.] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 87 

comes necessary ; and accordingly, in English, it hath all the 
three genders belonging to it ; he, she, it. As to cases ; even 
those Languages which have dropped them in substantive nouns, 
sometimes retain more of them in pronouns, for the sake of the 
greater readiness in expressing relations ; as pronouns are words 
of such frequent occurrence in discourse. In English, most of 
our grammarians hold the personal pronouns to have two cases, 
besides the nominative ; a genitive, and an accusative. — I, mine, 
me; — thou, thine, thee; — he, his, him ; — who, whose, whom. 

In the first stage of speech, it is probable that the places of 
those pronouns were supplied by pointing to the object when 
present, and naming it when absent. For one can hardly think 
that pronouns were of early invention ; as they are words of 
such a particular and artificial nature. I, thou, he, it, it is to be 
observed, are not names peculiar to any single object, but so 
very general, that they may be applied to all persons or objects, 
whatever, in certain circumstances. It is the most general term 
that can possibly be conceived, as it may stand for any one thing 
in the universe of which we speak. At the same time, these 
pronouns have this quality, that, in the circumstances in which 
they are applied, they never denote more than one precise indi- 
vidual ; which they ascertain, and specify, much in the same 
manner as is done by the article. So that pronouns are, at once, 
the most general, and the most particular words in Language. 
They are commonly the most irregular and troublesome words 
to the learner, in the Grammar of all Tongues ; as being the 
words most in common use, and subjected thereby to the greatest 
varieties. 

Adjectives, or terms of quality, such as great, little,* black, white, 
yours, ours, are the plainest and simplest of all that class of words 
which are termed attributive. They are found in all Languages; 
and, in all Languages, must have been very early invented; as 
objects could not be distinguished from one another, nor any 
intercourse be carried on concerning them, till once names were 
given to their different qualities. 

I have nothing to observe in relation, to them, except that 
singularity which attends them in the Greek and Latin, of hav- 
ing the same form given them with substantive nouns ; being 
declined, like them, by cases, and subjected to the like distinc- 
tions of number and gender. Hence it has happened, that 
grammarians have made them belong to the same part of Speech, 
and divided the noun into substantive and adjective ; an arrange- - 
ment founded more on attention to the external form of words, 
than to their nature and force. For adjectives, or terms of 
quality, have not, by their nature, the least resemblance to sub- 
stantive nouns, as they never express any thing which can pos- 
sibly subsist by itself; which is the very essence of the substan- 
tive noun. They are, indeed, more akin to verbs, which, like 
them, express the attribute of some substance. 



88 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. [LECT. IX. 

It may, at first view, appear somewhat odd and fantastic, that 
adjectives should, in the ancient Languages, have assumed so 
much the form of substantives ; since neither number, nor gen- 
der, nor cases, nor relations, have any thing to do, in a proper 
sense, with mere qualities, such as, good or great, soft or hard. 
And yet bonus, and magnus, and tener, have their singular and 
plural, their masuline and feminine, their genitives and datives, 
like any of the names of substances, or persons. But this can be 
accounted for, from the genius of those Tongues. They avoided, 
as much as possible, considering qualities separately, or in the 
abstract. They made them a part, or appendage of the substance 
which they served to distinguish ; they made the adjective de- 
pend on its substantive, and resemble it in termination, in num- 
ber, and gender, in order that the two might coalesce the more 
intimately, and be joined in the form of expression, as they were 
in the nature of things. The liberty of transposition, too, which 
those -languages indulged, required such a method as this to be 
followed. For, allowing the related words of a sentence to be 
placed at a distance from each other, it required the relation of 
adjectives to their proper substantives to be pointed out, by such 
similar circumstances of form and termination, as, according to 
the grammatical style, should show their concordance. When I 
say, in English, the " Beautiful wife of a brave man," the juxta- 
position of the words prevents all ambiguity. But when I say, 
in Latin, " Formosa fortis viri uxor ; " it is only the agreement, 
in gender, number, and case, of the adjective, "formosa" which 
is the first word of the sentence, with the substantive " uxor? 
which is the last word, that declares the meaning. 



LECTURE IX. 
Br 

STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. ENGLISH TONGUE. 

Of the whole class of words that are called attributive, indeed, 
of all the parts of speech, the most complex, by far is the verb. 
It is chiefly in this part of Speech, that the subtle and profound 
metaphysic of Language appears ; and, therefore, in examining 
the nature and different variations of the verb, there might be 
room for ample discussion. But as I am sensible, that such 
grammatical discussions, when they are pursued far, become 
intricate and obscure, I shall avoid dwelling any longer on this 
subject than seems absolutely necessary. 

The verb is so far of the same nature with the adjective, that 
it expresses, like it, an attribute, or property, of some person or 
thing. But it does more than this. For, in all verbs, in every 
Language, there are no less than three things implied at once ; 



LECT. IX.] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 89 

the attribute of some substantive, an affirmation concerning that 
attribute, and time. Thus, when I say, " the sun shineth ; " 
shining is the attribute ascribed to the sun ; the present time is 
marked ; and an affirmation is included, that this property of 
shining belongs, at that time, to the sun. The participle 
" shining," is merely an adjective, which denotes an attribute, 
or property, and also expresses time ; but carries no affirmation. 
The infinitive mood, " to shine," may be called the name of the 
verb ; it carries neither time nor affirmation, but simply expresses 
that attribute, action, or state of things, which is to be the sub- 
ject of the other moods and tenses. Hence, the infinitive often 
carries the resemblance of a substantive noun ; and, both in 
English and Latin, is sometimes constructed as such. As, "scire 
tuum nihil est," " Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori." And, 
in English, in the same manner : " To write well is difficult ; to 
speak eloquently is still more difficult." But as, through all the 
other tenses and moods, the affirmation runs, and is essential to 
them ; " the sun shineth, was shining, shone, will shine, would 
have shone," &c, the affirmation seems to be that which chiefly 
distinguishes the verb from the other parts of Speech, and gives 
it its most conspicuous power. Hence, there can be no sen- 
tence, or complete proposition, without a verb either expressed 
or implied. For whenever we speak, we always mean to assert, 
that something is, or is not ; and the word which carries this 
assertion or affirmation is a verb. From this sort of eminence 
belonging to it, this part of Speech hath received its name, verb, 
from the Latin, verbum, or the word, by way of distinction. 

Verbs, therefore, from their importance and necessity in 
Speech, must have been coeval with men's first attempts towards 
the formation of Language : Though, indeed, it must have been 
the work of long time, to rear them up to that accurate and 
complex structure which they now possess. It seems very 
probable, as Dr. Smith has suggested, that the radical verb, or 
the first form of it, in most Languages, would be, what we uom 
call, the Impersonal verb. " It rains ; it thunders ; it is light ; 
it is agreeable ; " and the like ; as this is the very simplest form 
of the verb, and merely affirms the existence of an event, or of 
a state of things, By degrees, after pronouns were invented, 
such verbs became personal, and were branched out into all the 
variety of tenses and moods; 

The tenses of the verb are contrived to imply the several dis- 
tinctions of time. Of these I must take some notice, in order to 
show the admirable accuracy with which Language is constructed. 
We think commonly of no more than the three great divisions of 
time, into the past, the present,- and the future : and we might 
imagine', that if verbs had been so contrived, as simply to express 
these, no more was needful. But Language proceeds with much 
greater subtilty. It splits time into its several moments. It 
considers time as never standing still, but always flowing ; things 

I 



90 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. [LECT. IX; 

past, as more or less perfectly completed ; and things future, as 
more or less remote, by different gradations. Hence, the great 
variety of tenses in most Tongues. 

The present may, indeed, be always considered as one indivi- 
sible point, susceptible of no variety. " I write, or I am writing ; 
scribo." But it is not so with the past. There is no language 
so poor, but it hath two or three tenses to express the varieties 
of it. Ours hath no fewer than four. 1. A past action may be 
considered as left unfinished ; which makes the imperfect tense, 
" I was writing ; scribebam" 2. As just now finished. This 
makes the proper perfect tense, which, in English, is always 
expressed by the help of the auxiliary verb, " I have written." 
3. It may be considered as finished some time ago ; the particular 
time left indefinite. "I wrote; scripsi;" which may either 
signify, "I wrote yesterday, or I wrote a twelvemonth ago." 
This is what grammarians call an aorist, or indefinite past. 
4. ' It may be considered as finished before something else, which 
is also past. This is the plusquam-perfect. " I had written ; 
scripseram." I had written before I received his letter. 

Here we observe, with some pleasure, that we have an advan- 
tage over the Latins, who have only three varieties upon the 
past time. They have no proper perfect tense, or one which 
distinguishes an action just now finished, from an action that was 
finished some time ago. In both these cases they must say 
" scripsi" Though there be a manifest difference in the tenses, 
which our Language expresses by this variation, " I have writ- 
ten," meaning, I have just now finished writing ; and, " I 
wrote," meaning at some former time, since which, other things 
have intervened. This difference the Romans have no tense to 
express ; and therefore, can only do it by a circumlocution. 

The chief varieties in the future time are two ; a simple or 
indefinite future : " I shall write ; scribam : " and a future, 
relating to something else, which is also future. "I shall have 
written ; scripsero." I shall have written before he arrives.* 

Besides tenses, or the power of expressing time, verbs admit 
the distinction of Voices, as they are called, the active and 
the passive : according as the affirmation respects something 
that is done, or something that is suffered ; " I love, or I 
am loved." They admit also the distinction of moods, which 
are designed to express the affirmation, whether active or 
passive, under different forms. The indicative mood, for in- 
stance, simply declares a proposition, " I write, I ' have writ- 
ten ; " the imperative requires, commands, threatens, " Write 
thou; let him write." The subjunctive expresses the propo- 
sition under the form of a condition, or in subordination to some 
other thing, to which a reference is made, " I might write, 

* On the tenses of verbs, Mr. Harris's Hermes may be consulted, by such as desire 
to see them scrutinized with metaphysical accuracy ; and also, the Treatise on the 
Origin and Progress of Language, vol. ii. p. 125. 



LECT. IX.] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 91 

I could write, I should write, if the case were so and so." This 
manner of expressing an affirmation, under so many different 
forms, together also with the distinction of the three persons, 7, 
thou, and he, constitutes what is called the conjugation of verbs, 
which makes so great a part of the Grammar of all Languages. 

It now clearly appears, as I before observed, that of all the 
parts of Speech, verbs are, by far, the most artificial and com- 
plex. Consider only, how many things are denoted by this 
single Latin word, "amavissem, I would have loved." First, 
The person who speaks, " I." Secondly, An attribute or action 
of that person, "loving." Thirdly, An affirmation concerning 
that action. Fourthly, The past time denoted in that affirmation, 
" have loved : " and, Fifthly, A condition on which the action is 
suspended, " would have loved." It appears curious and remark- 
able, that words of this complex import, and with more or less of 
this artificial structure, are to be found as far as we know, in all 
Languages of the world. 

Indeed, the form of conjugation, or the manner of expressing 
all these varieties in the verb, differs greatly in different Tongues. 
Conjugation is esteemed most perfect in those Languages which, 
by varying either the termination or the initial syllable of the 
verb, express the greatest number of important circumstances, 
without the help of auxiliary words. In the oriental Tongues, 
the verbs are said to have few tenses, or expressions of time ; 
but then their moods are so contrived, as to express a great 
variety of circumstances and relations. In the Hebrew, for in- 
stance, they say, in one word, without the help of any auxiliary, 
not only, "I have taught," but, "I have taught exactly, or 
often ; I have been commanded to teach ; I have taught myself." 
The Greek, which is the most perfect of all the known Tongues, 
is very regular and complete in all the tenses and moods. The 
Latin is formed on the same model, but more imperfect, espe- 
cially in the passive voice, which forms most of the tenses by the 
help of the auxiliary t c sum? 

In all the modern European Tongues, conjugation' is very 
defective. They admit few varieties in the termination of the 
verb itself; but have almost constant recourse to their auxiliary 
verbs, throughout all the moods and tenses, both active and -pas- 
sive. Language has undergone a change in conjugation, perfectly 
similar to that which I showed in the last Lecture, it underwent 
with respect to declension. As prepositions, prefixed to the 
noun, superseded the use of cases ; so the two great auxiliary 
verbs,, to have, and to he, with those other auxiliaries, which we 
use in English, do, shall, will, may, and can, prefixed to the par- 
ticiple, supersede, in a great measure, the different terminations 
of moods and tenses, which formed the ancient conjugations. 
^ The alteration, in both cases, was owing to the same cause, 
and will be easily understood, from reflecting on what was for- 
merly observed. The auxiliary verbs are like prepositions, words 

I 2 



92 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. [LECT. IX. 

of a very general and abstract nature. They imply the different 
modifications of simple existence, considered alone, and without 
reference to any particular thing. In the early state of Speech, 
the import of them would be incorporated with every particular 
verb in its tenses and moods, long before words were invented 
for denoting such abstract conceptions of existence, alone, and 
by themselves. But after those auxiliary verbs came, in the 
progress of Language, to be invented and known, and, to have 
tenses and moods given to them like other verbs ; it was found 
that as they carried in their nature the force of that affirmation 
which distinguishes the verb, they might, by being joined with 
the participle which gives the meaning of the verb, supply the 
place of most of the moods and tenses. Hence, as the modern 
Tongues began to rise out of the ruins of the ancient, this method 
established itself in the new formation of Speech. Such words, 
for instance, as am, was, have, shall, being once familiar, it 
appeared more easy to apply these to any verb whatever ; as, / 
am loved ; I was loved; I have loved; than to remember that 
variety of terminations which were requisite in conjugating the 
ancient verbs, amor, amabar, amavi, fyc. Two or three varieties 
only, in the termination of the verb, were retained, as love, loved, 
loving ; and all the rest were dropt. The consequence, however, 
of this practice was the same as that of abolishing declensions. 
It rendered Language more simple and easy in its structure ; but 
withal more prolix, and less graceful. This finishes all that 
seemed most necessary to be observed with respect to verbs. 

The remaining parts of speech, which are called the indeclin- 
able parts, or that admit of no variations, will not detain us long. 

Adverbs are the first that occur. These form a very nume- 
rous class of words in every Language, reducible, in general, to 
the head of Attributives ; as they serve to modify, or to denote, 
some circumstance of an action, or of a quality, relative to its 
time, place, order, degree, and the other properties of it, which 
we have occasion to specify. They are, for the most part, no 
more than an abridged mode of Speech, expressing, by one word, 
what might, by a circumlocution, be resolved into two or more 
words belonging to the other parts of Speech. " Exceedingly," 
for instance, is the same as, " in a high degree ; " " bravely," 
the same as, " with bravery or valour ; " " here," the same as, 
"in this place ; " " often, and seldom," the same as, "for many, 
and for few times : " and so of the rest. Hence, adverbs may be 
conceived as of less necessity, and of later introduction into 
the system of Speech, than many other classes of words ; and, 
accordingly, the great body of them are derived from other words 
formerly established in the Language. 

Prepositions and Conjunctions are words more essential to 
discourse than the greatest part of adverbs. They form that 
class of words, called Connectives, without which there could be 
no Language ; serving to express the relations which things bear 



LECT. IX.] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 93 

to one another, their mutual influence, dependencies, and co- 
herence ; thereby joining words together into intelligible and 
significant propositions. Conjunctions are generally employed 
for connecting sentences, or members of sentences ; as, and, 
because, although, and the like. Prepositions are employed for 
connecting words, by showing the relation which one substantive 
noun bears to another ; as, of, from, to, above, below, &c. Of the 
force of these I had occasion to speak before, when treating of 
the cases and declensions of substantive nouns. 

It is abundantly evident, that all these connective particles 
must be of the greatest use in Speech; seeing they point out the 
relations and transitions by which the mind passes from one 
idea to another. They are the foundation of all reasoning, which 
is no other thing than the connexion of thoughts. And, there- 
fore, though among barbarous nations, and in the rude uncivilized 
ages of the world, the stock of these words might be small, it 
must always have increased, as mankind advanced in the arts of 
reasoning and reflection. The more that any nation is improved 
by science, and the more perfect their language becomes, we 
may naturally expect, that it will abound more with connective 
particles; expressing relations of things, and transitions of 
thought, which had escaped a grosser view. Accordingly, no 
tongue is so full of them as the Greek, in consequence of the 
acute and subtle genius of that refined people. In every lan- 
guage, much of the beauty and strength of it depends on the 
proper use of conjunctions, prepositions, and those relative pro- 
nouns, which also serve the same purpose of connecting the 
different parts of discourse. It is the right or wrong manage- 
ment of thes?, which chiefly makes discourse appear firm and 
compacted, or disjointed and loose ; which carries it on its progress 
with a smooth and even pace, or renders its march irregular and 
desultory. 

I shall dwell no longer on the general construction of Lanr 
guage. Allow me, only, before I dismiss the subject, to observe, 
that, dry and intricate as it may seem to some, it is, however, of 
great importance, and very nearly connected with the philosophy 
of the human mind. For, if Speech be the vehicle, or interpreter 
of the conceptions of our minds, an examination of its Structure 
and Progress cannot but unfold many things concerning the 
nature and progress of our conceptions themselves, and the ope- 
rations of our faculties ; a subject that is always instructive to 
man. " Nequis," says Quinctilian, an author of excellent judg- 
ment, "nequis tanquam parva fastidiat grammatices elementa. 
JNTon quia magna? sit operse consonantes a vocalibus discernere, 
easque in semivocalium numerum, mutarumque partiri, sed quia 
interiora velut sacri hujus adeuntibus, apparebit multa rerum 
subtilitas, qua? non modo acuere ingenia puerilia, sed exercere 
altissimam quoque erudrtionem ac scientiam possit."* i. 4. 

* " Let no man despise, as inconsiderable, the elements of grammar, because it may 



94 THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. [LECT. IX. 

Let us now come nearer to our own language. In this, and 
the preceding lecture, some observations have already been made 
on its Structure. But it is proper that we should be a little 
more particular in the examination of it. 

The language which is, at present, spoken throughout Great 
Britain, is neither the ancient primitive Speech of the island, 
nor derived from it ; but is altogether of foreign origin. The 
language of the first inhabitants of our island, beyond doubt, 
was the Celtic or Gaelic, common to them with Gaul ; from 
which country, it appears, by many circumstances, that Great 
Britain was peopled. This Celtic tongue, which is said to be 
very expressive, and copious, and is, probably, one of the most 
ancient languages in the world, obtained once in most of the 
western regions of Europe. It was the language of Gaul, of 
Great Britain, of Ireland, and, very probably, of Spain also; 
till, in the course of those revolutions, which by means of the 
conquests, first, of the Romans, and afterwards of the northern 
nations, changed the government, speech, and, in a manner, the 
whole face of Europe, this tongue was gradually obliterated ; and 
now subsists only in the mountains of Wales, in the Highlands of 
Scotland, and among the wild Irish. For the Irish, the Welsh, 
and the Erse, are no other than different dialects of the same 
tongue, the ancient Celtic. 

This, then, was the language of the primitive Britons, the 
first inhabitants that we know of, in our island ; and continued 
so till the arrival of the Saxons in England, in the year of our 
Lord 450 ; who, having conquered the Britons, did not intermix 
with them, but expelled them from their habitations, and 
drove them, together with their language, into the mountains 
of Wales. The Saxons were one of those northern nations 
that overran Europe ; and their tongue, a dialect of the Gothic 
or Teutonic, altogether distinct from the Celtic, laid the 
foundation of the present English tongue. With some inter- 
mixture of Danish, a language, probably, from the same root 
with the Saxon, it continued to be spoken throughout the south- 
ern part of the island, till the time of William the Conqueror. 
He introduced his Norman or French as the language of the 
court, which made a considerable change in the Speech of the 
nation ; and the English, which was spoken afterwards, and con- 
tinues to be spoken now, is a mixture of the ancient Saxon, and 
this Norman French, together with such new and foreign words 
as commerce and learning have, in progress of time, gradually 
introduced. 

The history of the English Language can, in this manner, 
be clearly traced. The language spoken in the Low Countries 

seem to him a matter of small consequence, to show the distinction between vowels and 
consonants, and to divide the latter into liquids and mutes. But they who penetrate 
into the innermost parts of this temple of science, will' there discover such refinement 
and subtilty of matter, as is not only proper to sharpen the understandings of young 
men, but sufficient to give exercise for the most profound knowledge and erudition.',' 



LECT. IX.] THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. 95 

of Scotland, is now, and has been for many centuries, no other 
than a dialect of the English. How, indeed, or by what steps, 
the ancient Celtic tongue came to be banished from the Low 
Country in Scotland, and to make its retreat into the Highlands 
and Islands, cannot be so well pointed out, as how the like revo- 
lution was brought about in England. Whether the southern- 
most part of Scotland was once subject to the Saxons, and formed 
a part of the kingdom of Northumberland ; or, whether the great 
number of English exiles that retreated into Scotland, upon the 
Norman conquest, and upon other occasions, introduced into that 
country their own language, which afterwards, by the mutual 
intercourse of the two nations, prevailed over the Celtic, are 
uncertain and contested points, the discussion of which would 
lead us too far from our subject. 

From what has been said, it appears, that the Teutonic dialect 
is the basis of our present Speech. It has been imported among 
us in three different forms, the Saxon, the Danish, and the 
Norman ; all which have mingled together in our Language. 
A very great number of our words, too, are plainly derived from 
the Latin. These we had not directly from the Latin, but most 
of .them, it is probable, entered into our tongue, through the 
channel of that Norman French, which William the Conqueror 
introduced. For, as the Romans had long been in full possession 
of Gaul, the language spoken in that country, when it was 
invaded by the Franks and Normans, was a sort of corrupted 
Latin, mingled with Celtic, to which was given the name of 
Romanshe : and as the Franks and Normans did not, like the 
Saxons in England, expel the inhabitants, but, after their victo- 
ries, mingled with them; the language of the country became a 
compound of the Teutonic dialect imported by these conquerors, 
and of the former corrupted Latin. Hence, the French language 
has always continued to have a very considerable affinity with 
the Latin ; and hence, a great number of words of Latin origin, 
which were in use among the Normans in France, were intro- 
duced into our tongue at the conquest ; to which, indeed, many 
have since been added, directly from the Latin, in consequence of 
the great diffusion of Roman literature throughout all Europe. 

From the influx of so many streams, from the junction of so 
many dissimilar parts, it naturally follows, that the English, like 
every compounded language, must needs be somewhat irregular. 
We cannot expect from it that correspondence of parts, that 
complete analogy in structure, which may be found in those 
simpler languages, which have been formed in a manner within 
themselves, and built on one foundation. Hence, as I before 
showed, it has but small remains of conjugation or declension; 
and its syntax is narrow, as there are few marks in the words 
themselves that can show their relation to each other, or, in the 
grammatical style, point out either their concordance, or their 
government in the sentence. Our words having been brought to 



96 THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. [LECT. IX. 

us from several different regions, straggle, if we may so speak, 
asunder from each other ; and do not coalesce so naturally in the 
structure of a sentence, as the words in the Greek and Roman 
tongues. 

But these disadvantages, if they be such, of a compound lan- 
guage, are balanced by other advantages that attend it ; parti- 
cularly by the number and variety of words with which such a 
language is likely to be enriched. Few languages are, in fact, 
more copious than the English. . In all grave subjects especially, 
historical, critical, political, and moral, no writer has the least 
reason to complain of the barrenness of our tongue. The studious 
reflecting genius of the people, has brought together great store 
of expressions, on such subjects, from every quarter. We are 
rich too in the language of poetry. Our poetical style differs 
widely from prose, not in point of numbers only, but in the very 
words themselves; which shows what a stock and compass of 
words we have it in our power to select and employ, suited to 
those different occasions. Herein we are infinitely superior to 
the French, whose poetical language, if it were not distinguished 
by rhyme, would not be known to differ from their ordinary 
prose. 

It is chiefly, indeed, on grave subjects, and with respect to 
the stronger emotions of the mind, that our language displays its 
power of expression. We are said to have thirty words, at least, 
for denoting all the varieties of the passion of anger.* But, in 
describing the more delicate sentiments and emotions, our 
tongue is not so fertile. It must be confessed that the French 
language far surpasses ours, in expressing the nicer shades of 
character ; especially those varieties of manner, temper, and 
behaviour, which are displayed in our social intercourse with 
one another. Let any one attempt to translate, into English, 
only a few pages of one of Marivaux's Novels, and he will soon 
be sensible of our deficiency of expressions on these subjects. 
Indeed, no language is so copious as the French for whatever is 
delicate, gay, and amusing. It is, perhaps, the happiest lan- 
guage for conversation in the known world ; but, on the higher 
subjects of composition, the English may be justly esteemed to 
excel it considerably. 

Language is generally understood to receive its predominant 
tincture from the national character of the people who speak it. 
We must not, indeed, expect that it will carry an exact and full 
impression of their genius and manners ; for, among all nations, 
the original stock of words which they received from their ances- 
tors, remain as the foundation of their speech throughout many 
ages, while their manners undergo, perhaps, very great altera- 

* Anger, wrath, passion, rage, fury, outrage, fierceness, sharpness, animosity, choler, 
resentment, heat, heartburning ; to fume, storm, inflame, be incensed; to vex, kindle, 
irritate, enrage, exasperate, provoke, fret; to be sullen, hasty, hot, rough, sour, peevish, 
&c. Preface to Greenwood's Grammar. 



LECT. IX.] THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. 97 

tions. National character will, however, always have some per- 
ceptible influence on the turn of language ; and the gaiety and 
vivacity of the French, and the gravity and thoughtfulness of 
the English, are sufficiently impressed on their respective 
tongues. 

From the genius of our language, and the character of those 
who speak it, it may be expected to have strength and energy. 
It is, indeed, naturally prolix ; owing to the great number of 
particles and auxiliary verbs which we are obliged constantly to 
employ; and this prolixity, must, in some degree, enfeeble it. 
We seldom can express so much by one word as was done by 
the verbs and by the nouns, in the Greek and Roman languages. 
Our style is less compact; our conceptions being spread out 
among more words, and split, as it were, into more parts, make 
a fainter impression when we utter them. Notwithstanding this 
defect, by our abounding in terms for expressing all the strong 
emotions of the mind, and by the liberty which we enjoy, in a 
greater degree than most nations, of compounding words, our 
language may be esteemed to possess considerable force of ex- 
pression ; comparatively, at least, with the other modern tongues, 
though much below the ancient. The style of Milton alone, 
both in poetry and prose, is a sufficient proof that the English 
tongue is far from being destitute of nerves and energy. 

The flexibility of a language, or its power of accommodation 
to different styles and manners, so as to be either grave and 
strong, or easy and flowing, or tender and gentle, or pompous 
and magnificent, as occasions require, or as an author's genius 
prompts, is a quality of great importance in speaking and 
writing. It seems to depend upon three things; the copiousness 
of a language ; the different arrangements of which its words 
are susceptible ; and the variety and . beauty of the sound of 
those words, so as to correspond to many different subjects. 
Xever did any tongue possess this quality so eminently as the 
Greek, which every writer of genius could so mould, as to make 
the style perfectly expressive of his own manner and peculiar 
turn. It had all the three requisites, which I have mentioned 
as necessary for this purpose. It joined to these the graceful 
variety of its different dialects ; and thereby readily assumed 
every sort of character which an author could wish, from the 
most simple and most familiar up to the most majestic. The 
Latin, though a very beautiful language, is inferior, in this 
respect^ to the Greek. It has more of a fixed character of state- 
liness and gravity. It is always firm and masculine in the 
tenour of its sound; and is supported by a certain senatorial \/ 
dignity, of which it is difficult for a writer to divest it wholly, 
on any occasion. Among the modern tongues, the Italian 
possesses a great deal more of this flexibility than the French. 
By its copiousness, its freedom of arrangement, and the great 
beauty and harmony of its sounds, it suits itself very happily to 



98 THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. [LECT. IX. 

most subjects, either in prose or in poetry ; is capable of the 
august and the strong, as well as the tender ; and seems to be, 
on the whole, the most perfect of all the modern dialects which 
have arisen out of the ruins of the ancient. Our own language, 
though not equal to the Italian in flexibility, yet is not destitute 
of a considerable degree of this quality. If any one will con- 
sider the diversity of style which appears in some of our classics, 
that great difference of manner, for instance, which is marked by 
the style of Lord Shaftesbury, and that of Dean Swift, he will 
see, in our tongue, such a circle of expression, such a power of 
accommodation to the different taste of writers, as redounds not 
a little to its honour. 

What the English has been most taxed with is its deficiency 
in harmony of sound. But though every native is apt to be 
partial to the sounds of his own language, and may therefore be 
suspected of not being a fair judge in this point; yet, I imagine, 
there are evident grounds on which it may be shown that this 
charge against our tongue has been carried too far. The melody 
of our versification, its power of supporting poetical numbers, 
without any assistance from rhyme, is alone a sufficient proof 
that our language is far from being unmusical. Our verse is, 
after the Italian, the most diversified and harmonious of any of 
the modern dialects ; unquestionably far beyond the French 
verse, in variety, sweetness, and melody. Mr. Sheridan has 
shown, in his Lectures, that we abound more in vowel and 
diphthong sounds than most languages ; and these too, so divided 
into long and short, as to afford a proper diversity in the quan- 
tity of our syllables. Our consonants, he observes, which appear 
so crowded to the eye on paper, often form combinations not 
disagreeable to the ear in pronouncing ; and, in particular, the 
objection which has been made to the frequent recurrence of the 
hissing consonant s in our language, is unjust and ill-founded. 
For, it has not been attended to, that very commonly, and in the 
final syllables especially, this letter loses altogether the hissing 
sound, and is transformed into a z, which is one of the sounds 
on which the ear rests with pleasure ; as in has, these, those, 
loves, hears, and innumerable more, where, though the letter s 
be retained in writing, it has really the power of z, not of the 
common s. 

After all, however, it must be admitted, that smoothness, or 
beauty of sound, is not one of the distinguishing properties of 
the English Tongue. Though not incapable of beings formed 
into melodious arrangements, yet strength and expressiveness, 
more than grace, form its character. We incline, in general, to 
a short pronunciation of our words, and have shortened the 
quantity of most of those w T hich we borrow from the Latin, as 
orator, spectacle, theatre, liberty, and such like. Agreeable to 
this, is a remarkable peculiarity of English pronunciation, the 
throwing the accent farther back, that is, nearer the beginning 



LECT. IX.] THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. 99 

of the word, than is done by any other nation. In Greek and 
Latin, no word is accented farther back than the third syllable 
from the end, or what is called the antepenult. But, in English, 
we have many words accented on the fourth, some on the 
fifth syllable from the end, as memorable, conveniency, ambula- 
tory, profitableness. The general effect of this practice of 
hastening the accent, or placing it so near the beginning of 
the word, is to give a brisk and a spirited, but at the same time 
a rapid and hurried, and not very musical tone to the whole 
pronunciation of a people. 

The English Tongue possesses, undoubtedly, this property, \ / 
that it is the most simple in its form and construction, of all the X 
European dialects. It is free from all intricacy of cases, de- 
clensions, moods, and tenses. Its words are subject to fewer 
variations from their original form than those of any other 
language. Its substantives have no distinction of gender, ex- 
cept what nature has made, and but one variation in case. Its 
adjectives admit of no change at all except what expresses 
the degree of comparison. Its verbs, instead of running through 
all the varieties of ancient conjugation, suffer no more than four 
or five changes in termination. By the help of a few preposi- 
tions and auxiliary verbs, all the purposes of significancy in 
meaning are accomplished ; while the words, for the most part, 
preserve their form unchanged. The disadvantages, in point of 
elegance, brevity, and force, which follow from this structure of 
our Language, I have before pointed out. But, at the same 
time, it must be admitted, that such a structure contributes to 
facility. It renders the acquisition of our Language less labo- 
rious, the arrangement of our words more plain and obvious, the 
rules of our syntax fewer and more simple. 

I agree, indeed, with Dr. Lowth (Preface to his Grammar) 
in thinking that the simplicity and facility of our Language 
occasions its being frequently written and spoken with less 
accuracy. It was necessary to study Languages which were of 
a more complex and artificial form, with greater care. The 
marks of gender and case, the varieties of conjugation and 
declension, the multiplied rules of syntax, were all to be at- 
tended to in Speech. Hence Language became more an object 
of art. It was reduced into form ; a standard was established ; 
and any departures from the standard became conspicuous. 
Whereas, among us, Language is hardly considered as an object 
of grammatical rule. We take it for granted, that a competent 
skill in it may be acquired without any study ; and that, in a 
syntax so narrow and confined as ours, there is nothing which 
demands attention. Hence arises the habit of writing in a 
loose and inaccurate manner. 

I admit, that no grammatical rules have sufficient authority 
to control the firm and established usage of Language. Estab- 
lished custom, in speaking and writing, is the standard to which 
we must at last resort, for determining every controverted point 



100 THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. [LECT. IX. 

in Language and Style. But it will not follow from this, that 
grammatical rules are superseded as useless. In every Lan- 
guage which has been, in any degree cultivated, there prevails a 
certain structure and analogy of parts, which is understood to 
give foundation to the most reputable usage of Speech; and 
which, in all cases, when usage is loose or dubious, possesses 
considerable authority. In every Language, there are rules 
of syntax which must be inviolably observed by all who would 
either write or speak with any propriety. For syntax is no 
other than that arrangement of words in a sentence, which 
renders the meaning of each word, and the relation of all 
the words to one another, most clear and intelligible. 

All the rules of Latin Syntax, it is true, cannot be applied 
to our Language. Many of these rules arose from the par- 
ticular form of their Language, which occasioned verbs or pre- 
positions to govern, some the genitive, some the dative, some 
the accusative or ablative case. But, abstracting from these 
peculiarities, it is to be always remembered, that the chief and 
fundamental rules of syntax are common to the English as well 
as the Latin Tongue ; and, indeed, belong equally to all Lan- 
guages. For, in all Languages, the parts which compose 
Speech are essentially the same ; substantives, adjectives, verbs, 
and connecting particles. And wherever these parts of Speech 
are found, there are certain necessary relations among them, 
which regulate their syntax, or the place which they ought to 
possess in a sentence. Thus, in English, just as much as in 
Latin, the adjective must, by position, be made to agree with 
its substantive ; and the verb must agree with its nominative in 
person and number ; because, from the nature of things, a word, 
which expresses either a quality or an action, must correspond 
as closely as possible with the name of that thing whose quality, 
or whose action, it expresses. Two or more substantives, joined 
by a copulative, must always require the verbs or pronouns, to 
which they refer, to be placed in the plural number ; otherwise, 
their common relation to these verbs or pronouns is not pointed 
out. An active verb must, in every Language, govern the 
accusative ; that is, clearly point out some substantive noun, 
as the object to which its action is directed. A relative pro- 
noun must, in every form of Speech, agree with its antecedent 
in gender, number, and person ; and conjunctions, or connecting 
particles, ought always to couple like cases and moods ; that is, 
ought to join together words which are of the same form and 
state with each other. I mention these, as a few exemplifica- 
tions of that fundamental regard to syntax, which, even in such 
a Language as ours, is absolutely requisite for writing or speak- 
ing with any propriety. 

Whatever the advantages or defects of the English Language 
be, as it is our own Language, it deserves a high degree of our 
study and attention, both with regard to the choice of words 
which we employ, and with regard to the syntax, or the arrange- 



LECT. X.] STYLE. 101 

ment of these words in a sentence. We know how much the 
Greeks and the Romans, in their most polished and flourishing 
times, cultivated their own Tongues. We know how much 
study both the French, and the Italians, have bestowed upon 
theirs. Whatever knowledge may be acquired by the study of 
other Languages, it can never be communicated with advantage, 
unless by such as can write and speak their own Language well. 
Let the matter of an author be ever so good and useful, his com- 
positions will always suffer in the public esteem, if his expression 
be deficient in purity and propriety. At the same time, the 
attainment of a correct and elegant style, is an object which de- 
mands application and labour. If any imagine they can catch it 
merely by the ear, or acquire it by a slight perusal of some 
of our good authors, they will find themselves much disappointed. 
The many errors, even in point of grammar, the many offences 
against purity of Language, which are committed by writers who 
are far from being contemptible, demonstrate, that a careful 
study of the Language is previously requisite, in all who aim 
at writing it properly. # 



LECTURE X. 

STYLE. — PERSPICUITY AND PRECISION. 

Having finished the subject of Language, I now enter on the 
consideration of Style, and the rules that relate to it. 

It is not easy to give a precise idea of what is meant by Style. 
The best definition I can give of it is* the peculiar manner 
in which a man expresses his conceptions, by means of Lan- 
guage. It is different from mere Language or words. The 
words which an author employs, may be proper and faultless ; 
and his Style may, nevertheless, have great faults : it may be 
dry or stiff, or feeble, or affected. Style has always some refer- 
ence to an author's manner of thinking. It is a picture of the 
ideas which rise in his mind, and of the manner in which they 
rise there; and, hence, when we are examining an author's 
composition, it is, in many cases, extremely difficult to separate 
the style from the sentiment. No wonder these two should be 
so intimately connected, as Style is nothing else than that sort of 

* On this subject, the reader ought to peruse Dr. Lowth's Short Introduction 
to English Grammar, with Critical Notes ; which is the Grammatical performance of 
highest authority that has appeared in our time, and in which he will see, what I have 
said concerning the inaccuracies in Language of some of our best writers, fully verified. 
In Dr. Campbell's Philosophy of Rhetoric, he will likewise find many acute and inge- 
nious observations, both on the English Language, and on Style in general. And Dr. 
Priestley's Rudiments of English Grammar will also be useful, by pointing out several 
of the errors into which writers are apt to fall. 



102 PERSPICUITY. [LECT. X. 

expression which our thoughts most readily assume. Hence 
different countries have been noted for peculiarities of Style, 
suited to their different temper and genius. The eastern na- 
tions animated their Style with the most strong and hyberbolical 
figures. The Athenians, a polished and acute people, formed a 
Style accurate, clear, and neat. The Asiatics, gay and loose in 
' their manners, affected a Style florid and diffuse. The like sort 
of characteristical differences are commonly remarked in the 
Style of the French, the English, and the Spaniards. In giving 
the general characters of Style, it is usual to talk of a nervous, 
a feeble, or a spirited Style ; which are plainly the characters of 
a writer's manner of thinking, as well as of expressing himself: 
so difficult it is to separate these two things from one another. 
Of the general characters of Style, I am afterwards to discourse ; 
but it will be necessary to begin with examining the more 
simple qualities of it ; from the assemblage of which, its more 
complex denominations, in a great measure, result. 

All the qualities of a good Style may be ranged under two 
heads, Perspicuity and Ornament. For all that can possibly be 
required of Language, is, to convey our ideas clearly to the 
minds of others, and, at the same time, in such a dress, 
as, by pleasing and interesting them, shall most effectually 
strengthen the impressions which we seek to make. When 
both these ends are answered, we certainly accomplish every 
purpose for which we use Writing and Discourse. 

Perspicuity, it will be readily admitted, is the fundamental 
quality of Style ; # a quality so essential in every kind of Writ- 
. ing, that for the want of it, nothing can atone. Without this, 
the richest ornaments of Style only glimmer through the dark ; 
and puzzle instead of pleasing the reader. This, therefore, must 
be our first object, to make our meaning clearly and fully under- 
stood, and understood without the least difficulty. " Oratio," 
says Quinctilian, " debet negligenter quoque audientibus esse 
aperta ; ut in animum audientis, sicut sol in oculos, etiamsi in 
eum non intendatur, occurrat. Quare, non solum ut intelligere 
possit, sed ne omnino possit non intelligere curandum."f If we 
are obliged to follow a writer with much care, to pause, and to 
read over his sentences a second time, in order to comprehend 
them fully, he will never please us long. Mankind are too 
indolent to relish so much labour. They may pretend to admire 
the author's depth, after they have discovered his meaning ; but 
they will seldom be inclined to take up his work a second time. 

Authors sometimes plead the difficulty of their subject, as 

* " Nobis prima sit virtus, perspicuitas, propria verba, rectus ordo, non in Ionium 
dilata conclusio ; nihil neque desit, neque superfluat." Quincttl. lib. viii. 

t " Discourse ought always to be obvious, even to the most careless and negligent 
hearer, so that the sense shall strike his mind, as the light of the sun does our eyes, 
though they are not directed upwards to it. We must study, not only that every 
hearer may understand us, but that it shall be impossible for him not to understand us." 



LECT. X.] PEKSPICUITY. 103 

an excuse for the want of Perspicuity. But the excuse can 
rarely, if ever, be admitted. For whatever a man conceives 
clearly, that it is in his power, if he will be at the trouble, 
to put into distinct propositions, or to express clearly to others : 
and upon no subject ought any man to write, where he cannot 
think clearly. His ideas, indeed, may, very excusably, be on 
some subjects incomplete or inadequate ; but still, as far as they 
go, they ought to be clear; and wherever this is the case, 
Perspicuity, in expressing them, is always attainable. The 
obscurity which reigns so much among many metaphysical 
writers, is, for the most part, owing to the indistinctness of 
their own conceptions. They see the object but in a confused 
light ; and, of course, can never exhibit it in a clear one to 
others. 

Perspicuity in writing, is not to be considered as merely a 
sort of negative virtue, or freedom from defect. It has higher 
merit : it is a degree of positive Beauty. We are pleased with 
an author, we consider him as deserving praise, who frees us 
from all fatigue of searching for his meaning; who carries us 
through his subject without any embarrassment or confusion ; 
whose style flows always like a limpid stream, where we see 
to the very bottom. 

The study of Perspicuity requires attention, first, to single 
words and phrases, and then to the construction of sentences. 
I begin with treating of the first, and shall confine myself to it 
in this Lecture. 

Perspicuity, considered with respect to words and phrases, 
requires these three qualities in them ; Purity r , Propriety, and 
Precision. 

Purity and Propriety of Language are often used indiscrimi- 
nately for each other; and, indeed, they are very nearly 
allied. A distinction, however, obtains between them. Purity, 
is the use of such words, and such constructions, as belong to 
the idiom of the Language which we speak ; in opposition to 
words and phrases that are imported from other Languages, or 
that are obsolete, or new-coined, or used without proper au- 
thority. Propriety, is the selection of such words in the Lan- 
guage, as the best and most established usage has appropriated 
to those ideas which we intend to express by them. It implies 
the correct and happy application of them, according to that 
usage, in opposition to vulgarisms, or low expressions ; and to 
words and phrases, which would be less significant of the ideas 
that we mean to convey. Style may be pure, that is, it may all 
be strictly English, without Scotticisms or Gallicisms, or un- 
grammatical irregular expressions of any kind, and may, never- 
theless, be deficient in Propriety. The words may be ill chosen ; 
not adapted to the subject, not fully expressive of the author's 
sense. He has taken all his words and phrases from the general 
mass of English Language ; but he has made his selection 



104 PRECISION IN STYLE. [LECT. X. 

among these words unhappily. Whereas, Style cannot be pro- 
per without being also pure : and where both Purity and Pro- 
priety meet, besides making Style perspicuous, they also render 
it graceful. There is no standard, either of Purity or of 
Propriety, but the practice of the best writers and speakers in 
the country. 

When I mentioned obsolete or new-coined words as incon- 
gruous with purity of Style, it will be easily understood, that 
some exceptions are to be made. On certain occasions, they 
may have grace. Poetry admits of greater latitude than prose, 
with respect to coining, or, at least, new-compounding words; 
yet, even here, this liberty should be used with a sparing hand. 
In prose, such innovations are more hazardous, and have a worse 
effect. They are apt to give Style an affected and conceited 
air; and should never be ventured upon, except by such, 
whose established reputation gives them some degree of dicta- 
torial power over Language. 

The introduction of foreign and learned words, unless where 
necessity requires them, should always be avoided. Barren 
Languages may need such assistances: but ours is not one 
of these. Dean Swift, one of our most correct writers, valued 
himself much on using no words but such as were of native 
growth: and his Language may, indeed, be considered as a 
standard of the strictest Purity and Propriety, in the choice of 
words. At present, we seem to be departing from this standard. 
A multitude of Latin words have, of late, been poured in 
upon us. On some occasions, they give an appearance of 
elevation and dignity to Style. But often, also, they render 
it stiff and forced: and, in general, a plain native Style, as it 
is more intelligible to all readers, so, by a proper manage- 
ment of words, it may be made equally strong and expressive 
with this Latinised English, 

Let us now consider the import of Precision in Language, 
which, as it is the highest part of the quality denoted by ' 
perspicuity, merits a full explication; and the more, because 
distinct ideas are, perhaps, not commonly formed about it. 

The exact import of Precision may be drawn from the 
etymology of the word. It comes from " prascidere," to cut 
off: it imports retrenching all superfluities, and pruning the 
expression so, as to exhibit neither more nor less than an 
exact copy of his idea who uses it. I observed before, that 
it is often difficult to separate the qualities of Style from the 
qualities of Thought ; and it is found so in this instance, for, 
in order to write with Precision, though this be properly a 
quality of Style, one must possess a very considerable degree 
of distinctness and accuracy in his manner of thinking. 

The words, which a man uses to express his ideas, may be 
faulty in three respects : They may either not express that idea 
which the author intends, but some other which only resembles, 



LECT. X.] PRECISION IN STYLE. 105 

or is akin to it ; or, they may express that idea, but not quite 
fully and completely; or they may express it together with 
something more than he intends. Precision stands opposed to 
all these three faults ; but chiefly to the last. In an author's 
writing with Propriety, his being free from the two former 
faults seems implied. The words which he uses are proper ; 
that is, they express that idea which he intends, and they ex- 
press it fully; but to be Precise, signifies, that they express 
that idea, and no more. There is nothing in his words which 
introduces any foreign idea, any superfluous unseasonable ac- 
cessory, so as to mix it confusedly with the principal object, 
and thereby to render our conception of that object loose and 
indistinct. This requires a writer to have, himself, a very 
clear apprehension of the object he means to represent to us ; 
to have laid fast hold of it in his mind; and never to waver 
in any one view he takes of it : a perfection to which, in- 
deed, few writers attain. 

The use and importance of Precision, may be deduced from 
the nature of the human mind. It never can view, clearly and 
distinctly, above one object at a time. If it must look at two or 
three together, especially objects among which there is resem- 
blance or connexion, it finds itself confused and embarrassed. 
It cannot clearly perceive in what they agree, and in what 
they differ. Thus, were any object, suppose some animal, to 
be presented to me, of whose structure I wanted to form a 
distinct notion, I would desire all its trappings to be taken 
off, I would require it to be brought before me by itself, and 
to stand alone, that there might be nothing to distract my 
attention. The same is the case with words. If when you 
would inform me of your meaning, you also tell me more than 
what conveys it ; if you join foreign circumstances to the prin- 
cipal object; if, by unnecessarily varying the expression, you 
shift the point of view, and make me see sometimes the object 
itself, and sometimes another thing that is connected with it ; 
you thereby oblige me to look on several objects at once, and I 
lose sight of the principal. You load the animal you are show- 
ing me, with so many trappings and collars, and bring so many 
of the same species before me, somewhat resembling, and yet 
somewhat differing, that I see none of them clearly. 

This forms what is called a Loose Style ; and is the proper 
opposite to Precision. It generally arises from using a super- 
fluity of words. Feeble writers employ a multitude of words to 
make themselves understood, as they think, more distinctly ; and 
they only confound the reader. They are sensible of not having 
caught the precise expression, to convey what they would sig- 
nify; they do not, indeed, conceive their own meaning very 
precisely themselves; and, therefore, help it out, as they can, by 
this and the other word, which may, as they suppose, supply the 
defect, and bring you somewhat nearer to their idea : they are 

K 



106 .fKECISION IN STYLE. [LECT. X. 

always going about it, and about it, but never just hit the thing. 
The image, as they set it before you, is always seen double ; and 
no double image is distinct. When an author tells me of his 
hero's courage in the day of battle, the expression is precise, and I 
understand it fully. But if, from the desire of multiplying words, 
he will needs praise his courage and fortitude ; at the moment 
he joins these words together, my idea begins to waver. He 
means to express one quality more strongly ; but he is, in truth, 
expressing two. Courage resists danger ; fortitude supports pain. 
The occasion of exerting each of these qualities is different ; and 
being led to think of both together, when only one of them 
should be in my view, my view is rendered unsteady, and my 
conception of the objects indistinct. 

From what I have said it appears that an author may, in a 
qualified sense, be perspicuous, while yet he is far from being 
precise. He uses proper words, and proper arrangement ; he 
gives you the idea as clearly as he conceives it himself ; and so far 
he is perspicuous ; but the ideas are not very clear in his own 
mind ; they are loose and general ; and, therefore, cannot be 
expressed with Precision. All subjects do not equally require 
Precision. It is sufficient, on many occasions, that we have a 
general view of the meaning. The subject, perhaps, is of the 
known and familiar kind ; and we are in no hazard of mistaking 
the sense of the author, though every word which he uses be not 
precise and exact. 

Few authors, for instance, in the English Language, are more 
clear and perspicuous, on the whole, than Archbishop Tillotson, 
and Sir William Temple ; yet neither of them are remarkable 
for Precision. They are loose and diffuse ; and accustomed to 
express their meaning by several words, which show you fully 
whereabouts it lies, rather than to single out those expressions 
which would convey clearly the idea they have in view, and no 
more. Neither, indeed, is Precision the prevailing character of 
Mr. Addison's Style; although he is not so deficient in this 
respect as the other two authors. 

Lord Shaftesbury's faults, in point of Precision, are much 
greater than Mr. Addison's ; and the more unpardonable, because 
he is a professed philosophical writer ; who, as such, ought, above 
all things, to have studied Precision. His style has both great 
beauties, and great faults ; and, on the whole, is by no means a 
safe model for imitation. Lord Shaftesbury was well acquainted 
with the power of words ; those which he employs are generally 
proper and well sounding ; he has great variety of them ; and 
his arrangement, as shall be afterwards shown, is commonly 
beautiful. His defect, in Precision, is not owing so much to 
indistinct or confused ideas, as to perpetual affectation. He is 
fond, to excess, of the pomp and parade of Language ; he is 
never satisfied with expressing any thing clearly and simply ; he 
must always give it the dress of state and majesty. Hence per- 



LECT. X.] PRECISION IN STYLE. 107 

petual circumlocutions, and many words and phrases employed 
to describe somewhat, that would have been described much 
better by one of them. If he has occasion to mention any per- 
son or author, he very rarely mentions him by his proper name. 
In the treatise, entitled Advice to an Author, he descants for 
two or three pages together upon Aristotle, without once naming 
him in any other way, than the Master Critic, the Mighty 
Genius and Judge of Art, the Prince of Critics, the Grand 
Master of Art, and Consummate Philologist. In the same way, 
the Grand Poetic Sire, the Philosophical Patriarch, and his Dis- 
ciple of noble Birth and lofty Genius, are the only names by 
which he condescends to distinguish Homer, Socrates, and Plato, 
in another passage of the same treatise. This method of dis- 
tinguishing persons is extremely affected ; but it is not so con- 
trary to Precision, as the frequent circumlocutions he employs 
for all moral ideas ; attentive, on every occasion, more to the 
pomp of Language, than to the clearness which he ought to have 
studied as a philosopher. The moral sense, for instance, after he 
had once defined it, was a clear term ; but how vague becomes 
the idea, when, in the next page, he calls it " that natural affec- 
tion, and anticipating fancy, which makes the sense of right and 
wrong ! " Self-examination, or reflection on our own conduct, 
is an idea conceived with ease ; but when it is wrought into all 
the forms of "A man's dividing himself into two parties, becoming 
a self-dialogist, entering into partnership with himself, forming 
the dual number practically within himself; " we hardly know 
what to make of it. On some occasions, he so adorns, or rather 
loads with words, the plainest and simplest propositions, as, if 
not to obscure, at least to enfeeble them. 

In the following paragraph, for example, of the Inquiry con- 
cerning Virtue, he means to show, that by every ill action we 
hurt our mind, as much as one who should swallow poison, or 
give himself a wound, would hurt his body. Observe what a 
redundancy of words he pours forth : " Now, if the fabric of the 
mind or temper appeared to us, such as it really is ; if we saw it 
impossible to remove hence any one good or orderly affection, or 
to introduce any ill or disorderly one, without drawing on, in 
some degree, that dissolute state which, at its height, is confessed 
to be so miserable ; it would then undoubtedly, be confessed, 
that since no ill, immoral, or unjust action can be committed, 
without either a new inroad and breach on the temper and pas- 
sions, or a further advancing of that execution already done : 
whoever did ill, or acted in prejudice to his integrity, good- 
nature, or worth, would, of necessity, act with greater cruelty 
towards himself, than he who scrupled not to swallow what was 
poisonous, or who, wdth his own hands, should voluntarily mangle 
or wound his outward form or constitution, natural limbs or 
body."* Here, to commit a bad action, is, first, " To remove a 

* Charactist. vol. ii. p. 85. 
J£ 2 



108 PRECISION IN STYLE. [LECT. X. 

good and orderly affection, and to introduce an ill or disorderly- 
one ; " next, it is, " To commit an action, that is ill, immoral, 
and unjust ; " an,d in the next line, it is, " To do ill, or to act in 
prejudice of integrity, good nature, and worth ; " nay, so very 
simple a thing as a man's wounding himself, is, " To mangle, or 
wound, his outward form or constitution, his natural limbs or 
body." Such superfluity of words is disgustful to every reader 
of correct taste ; and serves no purpose but to embarrass and 
perplex the sense. This sort of Style is elegantly described by 
Quinctilian, " Est in quibusdam turba inanium verborum, qui 
dum communem loquendi morem reformidant, ducti specie nitoris, 
circumeunt omnia copiosa loquacitate quse dicere volunt." * — Lib. 
vii. cap. 2. 

The great source of a Loose Style, in opposition to Precision, 
is the injudicious use of those words termed Synonymous. They 
are called Synonymous, because they agree in expressing one 
principal idea ; but, for the most part, if not always, they express 
it with some diversity in the circumstances. They are varied 
by some accessory idea which every word introduces, and which 
forms the distinction between them. Hardly, in any Language, 
are there two words that convey precisely the same idea; a 
person thoroughly conversant in the propriety of the Language, 
will always be able to observe something that distinguishes them. 
As they are like different shades of the same colour, an accurate 
writer can employ them to great advantage, by using them so as 
to heighten and to finish the picture, which he gives us. He 
supplies by one, what was wanting in the other, to the force, or 
to the lustre of the image which he means to exhibit. But in 
order to this end, he must be extremely attentive to the choice 
which he makes of them. For the bulk of writers are very apt 
to confound them with each other ; and to employ them care- 
lessly, merely for the sake of filling up a period, or of rounding 
and diversifying the Language, as if their signification were ex- 
actly the same, while, in truth, it is not. Hence a certain mist, 
and indistinctness, is unwarily thrown over Style. 

In the Latin Language, there are no two words we should 
more readily take to be synonymous, than amare and diligere. 
Cicero, however, has shown us, that there is a very clear distinc- 
tion betwixt them. " Quid ergo," says he, in one of his epistles, 
" tibi commendem eum quern tu ipse diligis ? Sed tamen ut scires 
eum non a me diligi solum, verum etiam amari, ob earn rem tibi 
haec scribo." f In the same manner, tutus and securus, are words 
which we should readily confound ; yet their meaning is different. 
Tutus signifies out of danger ; securus, free from the dread of it. 

* " A crowd of unmeaning words is brought together by some authors, who, afraid 
of expressing themselves after a common and ordinary manner, and allured by an 
appearance of splendour, surround every thing which they mean to say with a certain 
copious loquacity." 

t Ad Famil. El. 13. p. 47. 



LECT. X.] PRECISION IN STYLE. 109 

Seneca has elegantly marked this distinction ; " Tuta scelera esse 
possunt, secura non possunt." * In our own Language, very 
many instances might be given of a difference in meaning among 
words reputed synonymous ; and, as the subject is of importance, 
I shall now point out some of these. The instances which I am 
to give, may themselves be of use ; and they will serve to show 
the necessity of attending, with care and strictness to the 
exact import of words, if ever we would write with Propriety 
or Precision. 

Austerity, Severity, Rigour. Austerity, relates to the manner 
of living ; Severity, of thinking ; Rigour, of punishing. To 
Austerity is opposed Effeminacy ; to Severity, Relaxation ; to 
Rigour, Clemency. A Hermit is austere in his life ; a Casuist, 
severe in his application of religion or law ; a Judge, rigorous in 
his sentences. 

Custom, Habit. Custom, respects the action ; Habit, the 
actor. By Custom, we mean the frequent repetition of the 
same act ; by Habit, the effect which that repetition produces 
on the mind or body. By the Custom of walking often in the 
streets, one acquires a Habit of idleness. 

Surprised, astonished, amazed, confounded. I am surprised, 
with what is new or unexpected ; I am astonished, at what is 
vast or great ; I am amazed, with what is incomprehensible; I 
am confounded, by what is shocking or terrible. 

Desist, renounce, quit, leave off. Each of these words implies, 
some pursuit or object relinquished ; but from different motives. 
We desist, from the difficulty of accomplishing. We renounce, 
on account of the disagreeableness of the object, or pursuit. We 
quit, for the sake of some other thing which interests us more ; 
and we leave off, because we are weary of the design. A poli- 
tician desists from his designs, when he finds they are impracti- 
cable ; he renounces the court, because he has been affronted by 
it ; he quits ambition for study or retirement ; and leaves off his 
attendance on the great, as he becomes old and weary of it. 

Pride, Vanity. Pride, makes us esteem ourselves ; Vanity, 
makes us desire the esteem of others. It is just to say, as Dean 
Swift has done, that a man is too proud to be vain. 

Haughtiness, Disdain. Haughtiness, is founded on the high 
opinion we entertain of ourselves ; Disdain, on the low opinion 
we have of others. 

To distinguish, to separate. We distinguish, what we want 
not to confound with another thing ; we separate, what we want 
to remove from it. Objects are distinguished from one another, 
by their qualities. They are separated, by the distance of time 
or place. 

To iceary, to fatigue. The continuance of the same thing 
wearies us ; labour fatigues us. I am weary with standing ; I 

* Epis.97. 






110 PRECISION IN STYLE. [LECT. X. 

am fatigued with walking. A suitor wearies us by his persever- 
ance ; fatigues us by his importunity. 

To abhor, to detest. To abhor, imports, simply, strong dislike ; 
to detest, imports also strong disapprobation. One abhors being 
in debt; he detests treachery. 

To invent, to discover. We invent things that are new ; we 
discover what was before hidden. Galileo invented the teles- 
cope ; Harvey discovered the circulation of the blood. 

Only, alone. Only, imports that there is no other of the same 
kind ; alone, imports being accompanied by no other. An only 
child, is one who has neither brother nor sister ; a child alone, is 
one who is left by itself. There is a difference, therefore in 
precise Language, betwixt these two phrases, "Virtue only 
makes us happy ; " and, " Virtue alone makes us happy." 
Virtue only makes us happy, imports, that nothing else can do 
it. Virtue alone makes us happy, imports, that virtue, by itself, 
or unaccompanied with other advantages, is sufficient to do it. 

Entire, complete. A thing is entire, by wanting none of its 
parts ; complete, by wanting none of the appendages that belong 
to it. A man may have an entire house to himself ; and yet not 
have one complete apartment. 

Tranquillity, Peace, Calm. Tranquillity, respects a situation 
free from trouble, considered in itself ; Peace, the same situation 
with respect to any causes that might interrupt it ; Calm, with 
regard to a disturbed situation going before, or following it. A 
good man enjoys Tranquillity, in himself; Peace, with others ; 
and Calm after the storm. 

A Difficulty, an Obstacle. A Difficulty, embarrasses ; an 
Obstacle, stops us. We remove the one ; we surmount the 
other. Generally, the first, expresses somewhat arising from the 
nature and circumstances of the affair ; the second, somewhat 
arising from a foreign cause. Philip found difficulty in managing 
the Athenians from the nature of their dispositions; but the 
eloquence of Demosthenes was the greatest Obstacle to his 
designs. 

Wisdom, Prudence. Wisdom, leads us to speak and act what 
is most proper. Prudence, prevents our speaking or acting 
improperly. A wise man, employs the most proper means for 
success \ a prudent man, the safest means for not being brought 
into danger. 

Enough, Sufficient Enough relates to the quantity which one 
wishes to have of any thing ; Sufficient, relates to the use that is 
to be made of it. Hence, Enough, generally imports a greater 
quantity than sufficient does. The covetous man never has 
enough ; although he has what is sufficient for nature. 

To avow, to acknowledge, to confess. Each of these words 
imports the affirmation of a fact, but in very different circum- 
stances. To avow, supposes the person to glory # in it; to 
acknowledge, supposes a small degree of faultiness, which the 



LECT. X.] PRECISION IN STYLE. HI 

acknowledgment compensates ; to confess, supposes a higher 
degree of crime. A patriot avows his opposition to a bad 
minister, and is applauded ; a gentleman acknowledges his mis- 
take, and is forgiven ; a prisoner confesses the crime he is accused 
of, and is punished. 

To remark, to observe. We remark, in the way of attention, 
in order to remember ; we observe, in the way of examination, 
in order to judge. A traveller remarks the most striking objects 
he sees ; a general observes all the motions of his enemy. 

Equivocal, Ambiguous. An Equivocal Expression is, one which 
has one sense open, and designed to be understood ; another sense 
concealed, and understood only by the person who uses it. An 
Ambiguous Expression is, one which has apparently two senses, 
and leaves us at a loss which of them to give it. An Equivocal 
Expression is used with an intention to deceive ; an Ambiguous 
one, when it is used with design, is, with an intention not to give 
full information. An honest man will never employ an equivocal 
expression ; a confused man may often utter ambiguous ones, 
without any design. I shall give only one instance more. 

With, by. Both these particles express the connexion be- 
tween some instrument, or means of effecting an end, and the 
agent who employs it; but with, expresses a more close and 
immediate connexion ; by, a more remote one. We kill a man 
with a sword ; he dies by violence. The criminal is bound with 
ropes by the executioner. The proper distinction in the use of 
these particles, is elegantly marked in a passage of Dr. Robert- 
son's History of Scotland. When one of the old Scottish kings 
was making an inquiry into the tenure by which his nobles held 
their lands, they started up, and drew their swords : " By these," 
said they, " we acquired our lands, and with these we will defend 
them." " By these we acquired our lands ;" signifies the more 
remote means of acquisition by force and martial deed; and 
" with these we will defend them ;" signifies the immediate direct 
instrument, the sword, which they would employ in their 
defence. 

These are instances of words in our language, which, by care- 
less writers, are apt to be employed as perfectly synonymous, and 
yet are not so. Their significations approach, but are not 
precisely the same. The more the distinction in the meaning of 
such words is weighed, and attended to, the more clearly and 
forcibly shall we speak or write.* 

* In French, there is a very useful treatise on the suhject, the Abbe" Girard's 
Synonymes Frangois, in which he has made a large collection of such apparent Sy- 
nonymes in the Language, and shown, with much accuracy, the difference in their 
signification. It is to be wished, that some such work were undertaken for our tongue, 
and executed with equal taste and judgment. Nothing would contribute more to precise 
and elegant writing. In the mean time, this French treatise may be perused with con- 
siderable profit. It will accustom persons to weigh, with attention, the force of words ; 
and will suggest several distinctions between synonymous terms in our own language, 
analogous to those which he has pointed out in the French ; and accordingly, several of 
the instances above given were suggested by the work of this author. 



112 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [LECT. XI. 

From all that has been said on this head, it will now appear, 
that, in order to write or speak with Precision, two things are 
especially requisite ; one, that an author's own ideas be clear and 
distinct; and the other, that he have an exact and full comprehen- 
sion of the force of those words which he employs. Natural genius 
is here required ; labour and attention still more. Dean Swift is 
one of the authors in our language, most distinguished for Pre- 
cision of Style. In his writings we seldom or never find vague 
expressions, and synonymous words, carelessly thrown together. 
His meaning is always clear, and strongly marked. 

I had occasion to observe before, that, though all subjects of 
writing or discourse demand Perspicuity, yet all do not require 
the same degree of that exact Precision, which I have endea- 
voured to explain. It is, indeed, in every sort of writing, a 
great beauty to have, at least, some measure of precision; in 
distinction from that loose profusion of words which imprints no 
clear idea on the reader's mind. But we must, at the same time, 
be on our guard, lest too great a study of Precision, especially in 
subjects where it is not strictly requisite, betray us into a dry 
and barren Style ; lest, from the desire of pruning too closely, we 
retrench all copiousness and ornament. Some degree of this 
failing may, perhaps, be remarked in Dean Swift's serious works. 
Attentive only to exhibit his ideas clear and exact, resting wholly 
on his sense and distinctness, he appears to reject disdainfully, 
all embellishment ; which, on some occasions, may be thought to 
render his manner somewhat hard and dry. To unite Copious- 
ness and Precision, to be flowing and graceful, and at the same 
time, correct and exact in the choice of every word, is, no doubt, 
one of the highest and most difficult attainments in writing. 
Some kinds of composition may require more of Copiousness 
and Ornament ; others, more of Precision and Accuracy ; nay, 
in the same composition, the different parts of it may demand a 
proper variation of manner. But we must study never to sacri- 
fice, totally, any one of these qualities to the other ; and by a 
proper management, both of them may be made fully consistent, 
if our own ideas be precise, and our knowledge and stock of 
words be, at the same time, extensive. 



LECTURE XL 

STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES! 

Having begun to treat of Style, in the last lecture, I consi- 
dered its fundamental quality, Perspicuity. What I have said 
of this relates chiefly to the choice of words. From Words 
I proceed to sentences ; and as, in all writing and discourse, the 
proper composition and structure of sentences is of the highest 



LECT. XI.] STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 113 

importance, I shall treat of this fully. Though Perspicuity be 
the general head under which I, at present, consider language, I 
shall not confine myself to this quality alone, in Sentences, but 
shall inquire also, what is requisite for their Grace and Beauty : 
that I may bring together, under one view, all that seems 
necessary to be attended to, in the construction and arrangement 
of words in a Sentence. 

It is not easy to give an exact definition of a Sentence, or 
Period, farther, than as it always implies some one complete 
proposition or enunciation of thought. Aristotle's definition is, 
in the main, a good one: " A&ig e^ouo-a ap\r]v kcu reXevrriv read' 
avrrjv, Kai /meysOog svvvvotttov :" " A form of speech which hath a 
beginning and an end within itself, and is of such a length, as to 
be easily comprehended at once." This, however, admits of a 
great latitude. For a Sentence, or Period, consists always of 
component parts which are called its members; and as these 
members may be either few or many, and may be connected in 
several different ways, the same thought, or mental proposition, 
may often be either brought into one sentence, or split into two 
or three, without the material breach of any rule. 

The first variety that occurs in the consideration of sentences, 
is the distinction of long and short ones. The precise length of 
sentences, as to the number of words, or the number of members, 
which may enter into them, cannot be ascertained by any defi- 
nite measure. At the same time it is obvious, there may be an 
extreme on either side. Sentences, immoderately long, and 
consisting of too many members, always transgress some one or 
other of the rules which I shall mention soon, as necessary to be 
observed in every good sentence. In discourses that are to be 
spoken, regard must be had to the easiness of pronunciation, 
which is not consistent with too long periods. In compositions 
where pronunciation has no place, still, however, by using long 
periods too frequently, an author overloads the reader's ear, and 
fatigues his attention. For long periods require, evidently, 
more attention than short ones, in order to perceive clearly 
the connexion of the several parts, and to take in the whole at 
one view. At the same time there may be an excess in too 
many short sentences also ; by which the sense is split and 
broken, the connexion of thought weakened, and the memory 
burdened, by presenting to it a long succession of minute objects. 

With regard to the length and construction of sentences, the 
French critics make a very just distinction of Style, into Style 
Periodique, and Style Coupe. The Style Periodique is, where the 
sentences are composed of several members linked together, and 
hanging upon one another, so that the sense of the whole is not 
brought out till the close. This is the most pompous, musical, 
and oratorical manner of composing ; as in the following sen- 
tences of Sir William Temple : " If you look about you, and 
consider the lives of others, as well as your own ; if you think 



114 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [LECT. XI. 

how few are born with honour, and how many die without name 
or children ; how little beauty we see, and how few friends we 
hear of; how many diseases, and how much poverty there is in 
the world ; you will fall down upon your knees, and instead of 
repining at one affliction, will admire so many blessings which 
you have received from the hand of God." (Letter to Lady 
Essex). Cicero abounds with sentences constructed after this 
manner. 

The Style Coupe is, where the sense is formed into short inde- 
pendent propositions, each complete within itself; as in the 
following of Mr. Pope : " I confess, it was want of considera- 
tion that made me an author. I writ, because it amused me. I 
corrected, because it was as pleasant to me to correct as to write. 
I published, because I was told I might please such as it was a 
credit to please." (Preface to his Works). This is very much 
the French method of writing ; and always suits gay and easy 
subjects. The Style Periodique gives an air of gravity and 
dignity to composition. The Style Coupe is more lively and 
striking. According to the nature of the composition, therefore, 
and the general character it ought to bear, the one or other may 
be predominant. But, in almost every kind of composition, the 
great rule is to intermix them. For the ear tires of either of 
them when too long continued : whereas, by a proper mixture of 
long and short periods, the ear is gratified, and a certain spright- 
liness is joined with majesty in our Style. " Non semper" (says 
Cicero, describing, very expressively, these two different kinds of 
Styles, of which I have been speaking), " non semper utendum 
est perpetuitate, et quasi conversione verborum ; sed saepe car- 
penda membris minutioribus oratio est."* 

This variety is of so great consequence, that it must be 
studied, not only in the succession of long and short sentences, 
but in the structure of our sentences also. A train of Sentences, 
constructed in the same manner, and with the same number of 
members, whether long or short, should never be allowed to 
succeed one another. However musical each of them may be, 
it has a better effect to introduce even a discord, than to cloy the 
ear with the repetition of similar sounds: for, nothing is so 
tiresome as perpetual uniformity. In this article of the con- 
struction and distribution of his sentences, Lord Shaftesbury has 
shown great art. In the last lecture, I observed, that he is 
often guilty of sacrificing precision of style to pomp of expres- 
sion ; and that there runs through his whole manner a stiffness 
and affectation, which render him very unfit to be considered as 
a general model. But, as his ear was fine, and as he was 
extremely attentive to every thing that is elegant, he has studied 
the proper intermixture of long and short sentences, with 
variety and harmony in their structure, more than any other 

* " It is not proper always to employ a continued train, and a sort of regular compass 
of phrases ; but style ought to be often broken down into smaller members." 



LECT. XI.] STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 115 

English author: and for this part of composition he deserves 
attention. 

From these general observations, let us now descend to a 
more particular consideration of the qualities that are required 
to make a sentence perfect. So much depends upon the proper 
construction of sentences, that in every sort of composition, we 
cannot be too strict in our attentions to it. For, be the subject 
what it will, if the Sentences be constructed in a clumsy, 
perplexed, or feeble manner, it is impossible that a work, com- 
posed of such sentences, can be read with pleasure, or even with 
profit. Whereas, by giving attention to the rules which relate 
to this part of Style, we acquire the habit of expressing our- 
selves with perspicuity and elegance ; and if a disorder chance 
to arise in some of our Sentences, we immediately see where it 
lies, and are able to rectify it.* 

The properties most essential to a perfect sentence, seem to 
me the four following : 1. Clearness and Precision. 2. Unity. 
3. Strength. 4. Harmony. Each of these I shall illustrate 
separately, and at some length. 

The first is, Clearness and Precision. The least failure here, 
the least degree of ambiguity, which leaves the mind in any sort 
of suspense as to the meaning, ought to be avoided with the 
greatest care ; nor is it so easy a matter to keep always clear of 
this, as one might, at first, imagine. Ambiguity arises from two 
causes ; either from a wrong choice of words, or a wrong collo- 
cation of them. Of the choice of words, as far as regards 
Perspicuity, I treated fully in the last lecture. Of the colloca- 
tion of them I am now to treat. The first thing to be studied 
here, is to observe exactly the rules of grammar, as far as these 
can guide us. But as the grammar of our Language is not 
extensive, there may often be an ambiguous collocation of words, 
where there is no transgression of any grammatical rule. The 
relations which the words, or members of a period, bear to one 
another, cannot be pointed out in English, as in the Greek or 
Latin, by means of termination; it is ascertained only by the 
position in which they stand. Hence, a capital rule in the 
arrangement of sentences is, that the words or members most 
nearly related, should be placed in the sentence, as near to each 
other as possible ; so as to make their mutual relation clearly 
appear. This is a rule not always observed, even by good 
writers, as strictly as it ought to be. It will be necessary to 

* On the Structure of Sentences, the ancients appear to have bestowed a great deal 
of attention and care. The Treatise of Demetrius Phalereus, 7rept Epfiijvsiag, abounds 
with observations upon the choice and collocation of words, carried to such a degree of 
nicety, as would frequently seem to us minute. The Treatise of Dionysius of Halicar- 
nassus, ttsql avvOecncjQ ovofiaroj, is more masterly ; but is chiefly confined to the 
musical structure of Periods ; a subject, for which the Greek Language afforded much 
more assistance to their writers than our tongue admits. On the arrangement of words, in 
English Sentences, the eighteenth chapter of Lord Kaims's Elements of Criticism ought 
to be consulted ; and also, the 2nd Volume of Dr. Campbell's Philosophy of Rhetoric. 



116 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [LECT. XI. 

produce some instances, which will both show the importance of 
this rule, and make the application of it understood. 

First : In the position of adverbs, which are used to qualify . 
the signification of something which either precedes or follows 
them, there is often a good deal of nicety. "By greatness," 
says Mr. Addison, in the Spectator, No. 412, "I do not only 
mean the bulk of any single object, but the largeness of a whole 
view." Here the place of the adverb only renders it a limitation 
of the following word, mean. "I do not only mean." The 
question may then be put, What does he more than mean ? 
Had he placed it after bulk, still it would have been wrong. 
" I do not mean the bulk only of any single object." For we 
might then ask, What does he mean more than the bulk ? Is 
it the colour? or any other property? Its proper place, un- 
doubtedly, is, after the word object. " By greatness, I do not 
mean the bulk of any single object only ;" for, then, when we 
put the question, What more does he mean than the bulk of a 
single object ? the answer comes out exactly as the author in- 
tends, and gives it, " the largeness of a whole view." — " Theism," 
says Lord Shaftesbury, " can only be opposed to polytheism, or 
atheism." Does he mean that theism is capable of nothing else, 
except being opposed to polytheism or atheism ? This is what 
his words literally import, through the wrong collocation of 
only. He should have said, " Theism can be opposed only to 
polytheism or atheism." — In like manner, Dean Swift (Project 
for the advancement of Religion), " The Romans understood 
liberty, at least, as well as we." These words are capable of 
two different senses, according as the emphasis, in reading them, 
is laid upon liberty, or upon at least. In the first case, they will 
signify, that whatever other things we may understand better 
than the Romans, liberty, at least, was one thing which they 
understood at least as well as we. In the second case, they will 
import, that liberty was understood, at least as well by them as 
by us ; meaning, that by them it was better understood. If 
this last, as I make no doubt, was Dean Swift's own meaning, 
the ambiguity would have been avoided, and the sense rendered 
independent of the manner of pronouncing, by arranging the 
words thus : " The Romans understood liberty, as well, at least, 
as we." The fact is, with respect to such adverbs, as, only, 
wholly, at least, and the rest of that tribe, that in common dis- 
course, the tone and emphasis we use in pronouncing them* 
generally serves to show their reference, and to make the mean- 
ing clear ; and hence, we acquire a habit of throwing them in 
loosely in the course of a period. But, in writing, where a man 
speaks to the eye and not to the ear, he ought to be more accu- 
rate; and so to connect those adverbs with the words which 
they qualify, as to put his meaning out of doubt upon the first 
inspection. 

Secondly, When a circumstance is interposed in the middle 



LECT. XI.] STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 117 

of a Sentence, it sometimes requires attention how to place it, 
so as to divest it of all ambiguity. For instance : " Are these 
designs," (says Lord Bolingbroke, Dissert, on Parties, Dedicat.) 
" Are these designs, which any man, who is born a Briton, in 
anv circumstances, in any situation, ought to be ashamed or 
afraid to avow ?" Here we are left at a loss, whether these 
words, "in any circumstances, in any situation" are connected 
with " a man born in Britain, in any circumstances, or situation," 
or with that man's " avowing his designs, in any circumstances, 
or situation into which he may be brought ?" If the latter, as 
seems most probable, was intended to be the meaning, the 
arrangement ought to have been conducted thus : " Are these 
designs, which any man who is born a Briton ought to be 
ashamed, or afraid, in any circumstances, in any situation, to 
avow ?" But, 

Thirdly : Still more attention is required to the proper dispo- 
sition of the relative pronouns, who, ichich, what, whose, and of 
all those particles which express the connexion of the parts of 
Speech with one another. As all reasoning depends upon this 
connexion, we cannot be too accurate and precise here. A small 
error may overcloud the meaning of the whole sentence ; and 
even where the meaning is intelligible, yet where these relative 
particles are out of their proper place, we always find something 
awkward and disjointed in the structure of the Sentence. Thus, 
in the Spectator, No. 54, " This kind of wit," says Mr. Addison, 
" was very much in vogue among our countrymen, about an age 
or two ago, who did not practise it for any oblique reason, but 
purely for the sake of being witty." We are at no loss about 
the meaning here ; but the construction would evidently be 
mended by disposing of the circumstance, " about an age or two 
ago," in such a manner as not to separate the relative icho from 
its antecedent our countrymen ; in this way : " About an age or 
two ago, this kind of wit was very much in vogue among our 
countrymen, who did not practise it for any oblique reason, but 
purely for the sake of being witty." — Spectator, Xo. 412, "We 
nowhere meet with a more glorious and pleasing show in nature, 
than what appears in the heavens at the rising and setting of the 
sun, ichich is wholly made up of those different stains of light, 
that show themselves in clouds of a different situation." Wliich 
is here designed to connect with the word show, as its antece- 
dent ; but it stands so wide from it, that without a careful atten- 
tion to the sense, we should be naturally led, by the rules of 
syntax, to refer it to the rising and setting of the sun, or to the 
sun itself; and, hence, an indistinctness is thrown over the whole 
Sentence. The following passage in Bishop Sherlock's Sermons 
(Vol. II. Serm. 1 5), is still more censurable : " It is folly to pre- 
tend to arm ourselves against the accidents of life, by heaping up 
treasures, which nothing can protect us against, but the good 
providence of our heavenly Father." U^hich always refers gram- 



118 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [LECT. XI. 

matically to the immediately preceding substantive, which here 
is "treasures;" and this would make nonsense of the whole 
period. Every one feels this impropriety. The sentence ought 
to have stood thus: "It is folly to pretend, by heaping up 
treasures, to arm ourselves against the accidents of life, which 
nothing can protect us against, but the good providence of our 
heavenly Father." 

Of the like nature is the following inaccuracy of Dean Swift's. 
He is recommending to young clergymen to write their sermons 
fully and distinctly. " Many," says he, " act so directly contrary 
to this method, that, from a habit of saving time and paper, 
which they acquired at the university, they write in so diminu- 
tive a manner, that they can hardly read what they have written." 
He certainly does not mean, that they had acquired time and 
paper at the university, but that they had acquired this habit 
there : and therefore his words ought to have run thus : " From 
a habit, which they have acquired at the university, of saving 
time and paper, they write in so diminutive a manner." In 
another passage, the same author has left his meaning altogether 
uncertain, by misplacing a relative. It is in the conclusion of 
his letter to a member of parliament, concerning the Sacramental 
Test : " Thus I have fairly given you, Sir, my own opinion, as 
well as that of a great majority of both houses here, relating to 
this weighty affair ; upon which I am confident you may securely 
reckon." Now, I ask, what it is he would have his correspond- 
ent to reckon upon, securely. The natural construction leads to 
these words, " this weighty affair." But, as it would be difficult 
to make any sense of this, it is more probable he meant that the 
majority of both houses might be securely reckoned upon ; 
though certainly this meaning as the words are arranged, is 
obscurely expressed. The Sentence would be amended by 
arranging it thus : " Thus, Sir, I have given you my own 
opinion, relating to this weighty affair, as well as that of a great 
majority of both houses here ; upon which I am confident you 
may securely reckon." 

Several other instances might be given ; but I reckon those 
which I have produced sufficient to make the rule understood, 
that, in the construction of sentences, one of the first things to 
be attended to, is, the marshalling of the words in such order as 
shall most clearly mark the relation of the several parts of the 
Sentence to one another ; particularly, that adverbs shall always 
be made to adhere closely to the words which they are intended 
to qualify : that, where a circumstance is thrown in, it shall never 
hang loose in the midst of a period, but be determined by its 
place to one or other member of it ; and that every relative word 
which is used, shall instantly present its antecedent to the mind 
of the reader without the least obscurity. I have mentioned 
these three cases, because I think they are the most frequent 
occasions of ambiguity creeping into Sentences. 



LECT. XI.] STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 119 

With regard to Relatives, I must farther observe, that ob- 
scurity often arises from the too frequent repetition of them, 
particularly of the pronouns, who, and they, and them, and theirs, 
when we have occasion to refer to different persons ; as, in the 
following sentence of Archbishop Tillotson (Vol. I. Serm. 42) : 
" Men look with an evil eye upon the good that is in others ; 
and think that their reputation obscures them, and their com- 
mendable qualities stand in their light ; and therefore they do 
what they can to cast a cloud over them, that the bright shining 
of their virtues may not obscure them." This is altogether care- 
less writing. It renders style often obscure, always embarrassed 
and inelegant. When we find these personal pronouns crowding 
too fast upon us, we have often no method left, but to throw the 
whole sentence into some other form, which may avoid those 
frequent references to persons who have before been mentioned. 

All languages are liable to ambiguities. Quinctilian gives us 
some instances in the Latin, arising from faulty arrangements. 
A man, he tells us, ordered, by his wall, to have erected for him, 
after his death, " Statuam auream hastam tenentem ; " upon 
w T hich arose a dispute at law, whether the whole statue, or the 
spear only, was to be of gold? The same author observes, 
very properly, that a sentence is always faulty, when the colloca- 
tion of the words is ambiguous, though the sense can be gathered. 
If any one should say, " Chremetem audivi percussisse Demeam;" 
this is ambiguous both in sense and structure, whether Chremes 
or Demea gave the blow. But if this expression were used, 
" Se vidisse hominem librum scribentem;" although the meaning 
be clear, yet Quinctilian insists that the arrangement is wrong. 
" Nam," says he, " etiamsi librum ab homine scribi pateat, non 
certe hominem a libro male tamen composuerat, feceratque 
ambiguum quantum in ipso fuit." Indeed, to have the relation 
of every word and member of a sentence marked in the most 
proper and distinct manner, gives not clearness only, but grace 
and beauty to a sentence, making the mind pass smoothly and 
agreeably along all the parts of it. 

I proceed now to the second quality of a well arranged sen- 
tence, which I termed its Unity. This is a capital property. 
In every composition, of whatever kind, some degree of Unity 
is required, in order to render it beautiful. There must be 
always some connecting principle among the parts. Some one 
object must reign and be predominant. This, as I shall here- 
after show r , holds in History, in Epic and Dramatic Poetry, and 
in all Orations. But most of all, in a single sentence, is required 
the strictest Unity. For the very nature of a sentence implies 
one proposition to be expressed. It may consist of parts, indeed; 
but these parts may be so closely bound together, as to make 
the impression upon the mind, of one object, not of many. Now, 
in order to preserve this Unity of a sentence, the following 
rules must be observed : 



L Urx.l/1* 
120 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [LECT. XI. 

In the first place, during the course of the sentence, the 
scene should be changed as little as possible. We should not 
be hurried by sudden transitions from person to person, nor from 
subject to subject. There is commonly in every sentence, some 
person or thing, which is the governing word. This should be 
continued so, if possible, from the beginning to the end of it. 
Should I express myself thus : " After we came to anchor, they 
put me on shore, where I was welcomed by all my friends, who 
received me with the greatest kindness." In this sentence, 
though the objects contained in it have a sufficient connexion 
with each other, yet by this manner of representing them, by 
shifting so often both the place and the person, we, and they, and 
/, and who, they appear in such a disunited view, that the sense 
of connexion is almost entirely lost. The sentence is restored to 
its proper Unity, by turning it, after the following manner: 
et Having come to an anchor, I was put on shore, where I was 
welcomed by all my friends, and received with the greatest kind- 
ness." Writers who transgress this rule, for the most part 
transgress, at the same time, 

A second rule : never to crowd into one sentence, things which 
have so little connexion, that they could bear to be divided 
into two or three sentences. The violation of this rule never 
fails to hurt and displease a reader. Its effect, indeed, is so bad, 
that of the two, it is the safer extreme, to err rather by two 
many short sentences, than by one that is overloaded and em- 
barrassed. Examples abound in authors. "I shall produce 
some, to justify what I now say. "Archbishop Tillotson," 
says an author of the History of England, " died in this year. 
He was exceedingly beloved both by King William and Queen 
Mary, who nominated Dr. Tennison, bishop of Lincoln, to suc- 
ceed him." Who would expect the latter part of this sentence, 
to follow, in consequence of the former ? "He was exceedingly 
beloved by both King and Queen," is the proposition of the 
sentence : we look for some proof of this, or at least something 
related to it, to follow ; when we are on a sudden carried off to 
a new proposition, "who nominated Dr. Tennison to succeed 
him." The following is from Middleton's Life of Cicero : " In 
this uneasy state, both of his public and private life, Cicero was 
oppressed by a new and cruel affliction, the death of his beloved 
daughter Tullia ; which happened soon after her divorce from 
Dolabella, whose manners and humours were entirely disagree- 
able to her." The principal object in this sentence is, the death 
of Tullia, which was the cause of her father's affliction ; the date 
of it, as happening soon after her divorce from Dolabella, may 
enter into the sentence with propriety ; but the subjunction of 
Dolabella's character is foreign to the main object, and breaks 
the unity and compactness of the sentence totally, by setting a 
new picture before the reader. The following sentence, from a 
translation of Plutarch, is still worse: " Their march," says the 



LECT. XI.] STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 121 

author, speaking of the Greeks under Alexander, "their march 
was through an uncultivated country, whose savage inhabitants 
fared hardly, having no other riches than a breed of lean sheep, 
whose flesh was rank and unsavoury, by reason of their continual 
feeding upon sea-fish." Here the scene is changed upon us 
again and again. The march of the Greeks, the description of 
the inhabitants through whose country they travelled, the ac- 
count of their sheep, and the cause of their sheep being ill-tasted 
food, form a jumble of objects, slightly related to each other, 
which the reader cannot, without much difficulty, comprehend 
under one view. 

These examples have been taken from sentences of no great 
length, yet over-crowded. Authors who deal in long sentences, 
are very apt to be faulty in this article. One need only open 
Lord Clarendon's History, to find examples every where. The 
long, involved, and intricate sentences of that author, are the 
greatest blemish of his composition : though in other respects, as 
a historian, he has considerable merit. In later, and more 
correct writers than Lord Clarendon, we find a period sometimes 
running out so far, and comprehending so many particulars, as 
to be more properly a discourse than a sentence. Take, for 
an instance, the following from Sir William Temple, in his 
Essay upon Poetry : " The usual acceptation takes Profit and 
Pleasure for two different things ; and not only calls the fol- 
lowers or votaries of them by the several names of Busy and 
Idle Men ; but distinguishes the faculties of the mind, that are 
conversant about them, calling the operations of the first, 
Wisdom ; and of the other Wit ; which is a Saxon word used to 
express what the Spaniards and Italians call Ingenio, and the 
French Esprit, both from the Latin ; though I think Wit more 
particularly signifies that of Poetry, as may occur in Remarks 
on the Runic Language." When one arrives at the end of such 
a puzzled sentence, he is surprised to find himself got to so 
great a distance from the object with which he at first set 
out. 

Lord Shaftesbury, often betrayed into faults by his love of 
magnificence, shall afford us the next example. It is in his 
Rhapsody, where he is describing the cold regions : " At length," 
says he, " the Sun approaching, melts the snow, sets longing 
men at liberty, and affords them means and time to make pro- 
vision against the next return of cold." The first sentence 
is correct enough ; but he goes on : " It breaks the icy fetters 
of the main, where vast sea monsters pierce through floating 
islands, with arms which can withstand the crystal rock ; whilst 
others, who of themselves seem great as islands, are by their 
bulk alone armed against all but Man, whose superiority over 
creatures of such stupendous size and force, should make him 
mindful of his privilege of Reason, and force him humbly to 
adore the greater Composer of these wondrous frames, and the 

L 



122 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [LECT. XI. 

Author of his own superior wisdom." Nothing can be more un- 
happy or embarrassed than this sentence ; the worse, too, as it is 
intended to be descriptive, where every thing should be clear. 
It forms no distinct image whatever. The It, at the beginning, 
is ambiguous, whether it mean the Sun or the Cold. The 
object is changed three times in the sentence ; beginning with 
the Sun, which breaks the icy fetters of the main ; then the 
Sea-monsters become the principal personages ; and lastly, by a 
very unexpected transition, Man is brought into view, and 
receives a long and serious admonition before the sentence 
closes. I do not at present insist on the impropriety of such 
expressions as, God's being the Composer of Frames : and the 
Sea-monsters having arms that withstand rocks. Shaftesbury's 
strength lay in reasoning and sentiment, more than in descrip- 
tion, however much his descriptions have been sometimes ad- 
mired. 

I shall only give one instance more on this head, from Dean 
Swift ; in his Proposal, too, for correcting the English Lan- 
guage : where, in place of a Sentence, he has given a loose dis- 
sertation upon several subjects. Speaking of the progress of 
our Language, after the time of Cromwell : " To this suc- 
ceeded," says he, " that licentiousness, which entered with the 
Restoration, and, from infecting our religion and Morals, fell 
to corrupt our Language ; which last was not likely to be much 
improved by those, who at that time made up the Court of 
King Charles the Second ; either such as had followed him in 
his banishment, or who had been altogether conversant in 
the dialect of these fanatic times ; or young men who had 
been educated in the same country ; so that the Court which 
used to be the standard of correctness and propriety of Speech, 
was then, and I think has ever since continued the worst school 
in England, for that accomplishment ; and so will remain, till 
better care be taken in the education of our nobility, that they 
may set out into the world with some foundation of literature, 
in order to qualify them for patterns of politeness." How many 
different facts, reasonings, and observations, are here presented 
to the mind at once ! and yet so linked together by the Author, 
that they all make parts of a Sentence, which admits of no 
greater division in pointing, than a semicolon between any of 
its members! Having mentioned pointing, I shall here take 
notice, that it is in vain to propose, by arbitrary punctuation, to 
amend the defects of a Sentence, to correct its ambiguity, or to 
prevent its confusion. For commas, colons, and points, do not 
make the proper divisions of thought ; but only serve to mark 
those which arise from the tenor of the Author's expression, 
and, therefore, they are proper or not, just according as they 
correspond to the natural division of the sense. When they 
are inserted in wrong places, they deserve, and will meet 
with, no regard. 



LECT. XI.] STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 123 

I proceed to a third rule, for preserving the Unity of Sen- 
tences ; which is, to keep clear of all parenthesis in the middle 
of them. On some occasions, they may have a spirited ap- 
pearance ; as prompted by a certain vivacity of thought, which 
can glance happily aside, as it is going along. But for the 
most part their effect is extremely bad : being a sort of wheels 
within wheels ; sentences in the midst of sentences ; the per- 
plexed method of disposing of some thought, which a writer 
wants art to introduce in its proper place. It were needless 
to give many instances, as they occur so often among incor- 
rect writers. I shall produce one from Lord Bolingbroke, the 
rapidity of whose genius and manner of writing, betrays him 
frequently into inaccuracies of this sort. It is in the introduc- 
tion to his Idea of a Patriot King, where he writes thus : — 
" It seems to me, that, in order to maintain the system of the 
world, at a certain point, far below that of ideal perfection (for 
we are made capable of conceiving what we are incapable of 
attaining), but, however, sufficient upon the whole, to con- 
stitute a state easy and happy, or, at the worst, tolerable ; I 
say, it seems to me, that the Author of nature has thought 
fit to mingle, from time to time, among the societies of men, a 
few, and but a few, of those on whom he is graciously pleased 
to bestow a larger portion of the Ethereal Spirit, than is given 
in the ordinary course of his government, to the sons of men." 
A very bad sentence this ; into which, by the help of a paren- 
thesis, and other interjected circumstances, his Lordship had con- 
trived to thrust so many things, that he is forced to begin the 
construction again with the phrase / say, which, whenever 
it occurs, may be always assumed as a sure mark of a clumsy 
ill-constructed Sentence ; excusable in speaking, where the 
greatest accuracy is not expected, but in polished writing un- 
pardonable. 

I shall add only one rule more for the Unity of a Sentence, 
which is to bring it always to a full and perfect close. Every 
thing that is one, should have a beginning, a middle, and an 
end. I need not take notice, that an unfinished Sentence is no 
Sentence at all, according to any grammatical rule, but very 
often we meet with Sentences, that are so to speak, more 
than finished. When we have arrived at what we expected 
was to be the conclusion, when we are come to the word on 
which the mind is naturally led, by what went before, to rest ; 
unexpectedly, some circumstance pops out, which ought to have 
been omitted, or to have been disposed of elsewhere; but 
which is lagging behind, like a tail adjected to the Sentence ; 
somewhat that, as Mr. Pope describes the Alexandrine line, 

" Like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along." 

All these adjections to the proper close, disfigure a Sentence 
extremely. They give it a lame, ungraceful air, and, in par- 

L 2 



124 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [LECT. XII. 

ticular, they break its Unity. Dean Swift, for instance, in his 
Letter to a Young Clergyman, speaking of Cicero's writings, 
expresses himself thus : " With these writings young divines 
are more conversant, than with those of Demosthenes, who, 
by many degrees, excelled the other ; at least, as an orator." 
Here the natural close of the Sentence is at these words, " ex- 
celled the other." These words conclude the proposition ; we 
look for no more ; and the circumstance added, " at least, as 
an orator," comes in with a very halting pace. How much 
more compact would the Sentence have been, if turned thus : 
" With these writings young divines are more conversant, than 
with those of Demosthenes, who, by many degrees, as an orator 
at least, excelled the other." In the following Sentence, from 
Sir William Temple, the adjection of the Sentence, is altogether 
foreign to it. Speaking of Burnet's Theory of the Earth, and 
Fontenelle's Plurality of Worlds, " The first," says he, " could 
not end his learned treatise without a panegyric of modern 
learning in comparison of the ancient; and the other falls so 
grossly into the censure of the old poetry, and preference of the 
new, that I could not read either of these strains without some 
indignation ; which no quality among men is so apt to raise 
in me as self-sufficiency." The word " indignation" concluded 
the Sentence ; the last member, " which no quality among men 
is so apt to raise in me as self-sufficiency," is a proposition 
altogether new, added after the proper close. 



LECTURE XII. 

STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 

Having treated of Perspicuity and Unity, as necessary to be 
studied in the Structure of Sentences, I proceed to the third 
quality of a correct Sentence, which I term Strength. By this 
I mean, such a disposition of the several words and members, as 
shall bring out the sense to the best advantage ; as shall render 
the impression which the period is designed to make, most full 
and complete; and give every word and every member their 
due weight and force. The two former qualities of Perspi- 
cuity and Unity, are, no doubt, absolutely necessary to the pro- 
duction of this effect; but more is still requisite. For a 
Sentence may be clear enough, it may also be compact enough 
in all its parts, or have the requisite unity ; and yet by some 
unfavourable circumstance in the structure, it may fail in that 
strength or liveliness of impression which a more happy ar- 
rangement would have produced. 



LECT. XII.] STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 125 

The first rule which I shall give for promoting the Strength 
of a sentence, is to divest it of all redundant words. These 
may, sometimes, be consistent with a considerable degree both 
of Clearness and Unity ; but they are always enfeebling. They 
make the Sentence move along tardy and encumbered ; 

Est brevitate opus, ut currat sententia, neu se 
Impediat verbis, lassas ouerantibus aures.* 

It is a general maxim, that any words which do not add some 
importance to the meaning of a Sentence, always spoil it. They 
cannot be superfluous without being hurtful. " Obstat," says 
Quinctilian, " quicquid non adjuvat." All that can be easily 
supplied in the mind, is better left out in the expression. Thus : 
" Content with deserving a triumph, he refused the honour of 
it," is better language than to say, " Being content with deserv- 
ing a triumph, he refused the honour of it." I consider it, there- 
fore, as one of the most useful exercises of correction, upon 
reviewing what we have written or composed, to contract that 
round-about method of expression, and to lop off those useless 
excrescences which are commonly found in a first draught. 
Here a severe eye should be employed; and we shall always 
find our Sentences acquire more vigour and energy when thus 
retrenched ; provided always, that we run not into the extreme 
of pruning so very close, as to give a hardness and dryness to 
style. For here, as in all other things, there is a due medium. 
Some regard, though not the principal, must be had to fullness 
and swelling of sound. Some leaves must be left to surround 
and shelter the fruit. 

As sentences should be cleared of redundant words, so also of 
redundant members. As every word ought to present a new 
idea, so every member ought to contain a new thought. Op- 
posed to this, stands the fault we sometimes meet with, of the 
last member of a period being no other than the echo of the 
former, or the repetition of it in somewhat a different form. For 
example ; speaking of Beauty, " The very first discovery of it," 
says Mr. Addison, " strikes the mind with inward joy, and 
spreads delight through all its faculties." (No, 412.) And else- 
where, " It is impossible for us to l^ehold the divine works with 
coldness or indifference, or to survey so many beauties, without 
a secret satisfaction and complacency," (No. 413.) In both these 
instances, little or nothing is added by the second member of the 
Sentence to what was already expressed in the first: And 
though the free and flowing manner of such an Author as Mr. 
Addison, and the graceful harmony of his period, may palliate 
such negligences ; yet, in general, it holds, that style, freed from 
this prolixity, appears both more strong and more beautiful. 

* " Concise your diction, let your sense be clear, 

.Nor with a weight of words fatigue the ear,'"' Francis. 



126 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [LECT. XII. 

The attention becomes remiss, the mind falls into inaction, when 
words are multiplied without a corresponding multiplication of 
ideas. 

After removing superfluities, the second direction I give, for 
promoting the Strength of a Sentence, is, to attend particularly 
to the use of copulatives, relatives, and all the particles employed 
for transition and connexion. Tflese little words, but, and, 
which, whose, where, &c. are frequently the most important words 
of any ; they are the joints or hinges upon which all Sentences 
turn, and, of course, much both of their gracefulness and strength 
must depend upon such particles. The varieties in using them 
are, indeed, so infinite, that no particular system of rules re- 
specting them can be given. Attention to the practice of the 
most accurate writers, joined with frequent trials of the dif- 
ferent effects, produced by a different usage of those particles, 
must here direct us. # Some observations I shall mention, which 
have occurred to me as useful, without pretending to exhaust 
the subject. 

What is called splitting of particles, or separating a preposi- 
tion from the noun which it governs, is always to be avoided. 
As if I should say, " Though virtue borrows no assistance from, 
yet it may often be accompanied by, the advantages of fortune." 
In such instances we feel a sort of pain from the revulsion, or 
violent separation of two things, which, by their nature, should 
be closely united. We are put to a stand in thought ; being 
obliged to rest for a little on the preposition of itself, which, at 
the same time, carries no significancy, till it is joined to its pro- 
per substantive noun. 

Some writers needlessly multiply demonstrative and relative 
particles, by the frequent use of such phraseology as this : " There 
is nothing which disgusts us sooner than the empty pomp of 
Language." In introducing a subject, or laying down a propo- 
sition to which we demand particular attention, this sort of style 
is very proper ; but in the ordinary current of discourse, it is 
better to express ourselves more simply and shortly : " Nothing 
disgusts us sooner than the empty pomp of Language." 

Other writers make a practice of omitting the Relative, in a 
phrase of a different kind from the former, where they think the 
meaning can be understood without it. As, " The man I love." 
— " The dominions we possessed, and the conquests we made." 
But though this elliptical style be intelligible, and is allowable 
in conversation and epistolary writing, yet, in all writings of a 
serious or dignified kind, it is ungraceful. There the Relative 
should always be inserted in its proper place, and the construction 
filled up : " The man whom I love." — " The dominions which we 
possessed, and the conquests which we made." 

With regard to the Copulative Particle, and, which occurs so 

* On this head Dr. Lowth's Short Introduction to English Grammar deserves to be 
consulted ; where several niceties of the Language are well pointed out. 



LECT. XII.] STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 127 

frequently in all kinds of composition, several observations are to 
be made. First, it is evident, that the unnecessary repetition of 
it enfeebles style. It has the same sort of effect as the frequent 
use of the vulgar phrase, and so, when one is telling a story 
in common conversation. We shall take a sentence from Sir 
William Temple, for an instance. He is speaking of the refine- 
ment of the French Language : " The academy set up by Car- 
dinal Richelieu, to amuse the wits of that age and country, and 
to divert them from raking into his politics and ministry, brought 
this into vogue ; and the French wits have, for this last age, been 
wholly turned to the refinement of their Style and Language : 
and, indeed, with such success, that it can hardly be equalled, 
and runs equally through their verse and their prose." Here 
are no fewer than eight ands in one Sentence. This agreeable 
writer too often makes his Sentences drag in this manner, by 
a careless multiplication of Copulatives. It is strange how a 
writer so accurate as Dean Swift should have stumbled on so 
improper an application of this particle, as he has made in the 
following Sentence ; Essay on the Fates of Clergymen. " There 
is no talent so useful towards rising in the world, or which puts 
men more out of the reach of fortune, than that quality generally 
possessed by the dullest sort of people, and is, in common Lan- 
guage, called Discretion ; a species of lower prudence, by the 
assistance of which," &c. By the insertion of, and is, in place of, 
which is, he has not only clogged the sentence, but even made it 
ungrammatical. 

But, in the next place, it is worthy of observation, that though 
the natural use of the conjunction, and, be to join objects to- 
gether, and thereby, as one would think, to make their connec- 
tion more close; yet in fact by dropping the conjunction, we 
often mark a closer connection, a quicker succession of objects 
than when it is inserted between them.. Longinus makes this 
remark ; which, from many instances, appears to be just : " Yeni, 
vidi, vici," # expresses with more spirit the rapidity and quick 
succession of conquest, than if connecting particles had been 
used. So, in the following description of a rout in Caesar's 
Commentaries : " Nostri, emissis pilis, gladiis rem gerunt ; re- 
pente post tergum equitatus cernitur ; cohortes aliae appropin- 
quant. Hostes terga vertunt ; fugientibus equites occurrunt ; 
fit magna caedes." f Bell. Gall. 1. 7. 

Hence, it follows, that when, on the other hand, we seek to 
prevent a quick transition from one object to another, when we 
are making some enumeration in which we wish that the objects 
should appear as distinct from each other as possible, and that 
the mind should rest, for a moment, on each object by itself ; in 
this case, Copulatives may be multiplied with peculiar advantage 

* " I came, I saw, I conquered." 

t " Our men, after having discharged their javelins, attack with sword in hand : of a 
sudden the cavalry make their appearance behind ; other bodies of men are seen drawing 
near ; the enemies turn their backs ; the horse meet them in their flight ; a great 
slaughter ensues." 



128 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [LECT. XII. 

and grace. As when Lord Bolingbroke says, " Such a man 
might fall a victim to power ; but truth, and reason, and liberty, 
would fall with him." In the same manner, Caesar describes an 
engagement with the Nervii : " His equitibus facile pulsis ac 
proturbatis, incredibile celeritate ad flumen decurrerunt ; ut pene 
uno tempore, et ad sylvas, et in flumine, et jam in manibus nos- 
tris, hostes viderentur." * Bell. Gall. 1. 2. 

Here, although he is describing a quick succession of events, 
yet, as it is his intention to show in how many places the enemy 
seemed to be at one time, the Copulative is very happily re- 
doubled, in order to paint more strongly the distinction of these 
several places. 

This attention to the several cases, when it is proper to omit, 
and when to redouble the Copulative, is of considerable import 
tance to all who study eloquence. For it is a remarkable parti- 
cularity in Language, that the omission of a connecting particle 
should sometimes serve to make objects appear more closely 
connected ; and that the repetition of it should distinguish and 
separate them in some measure from each other. Hence, the 
omission of it is iised to denote rapidity ; and the repetition of it 
is designed to retard and to aggravate. The reason seems to be, 
that, in the former case, the mind is supposed to be hurried so 
fast through a quick succession of objects, that it has not leisure 
to point out their connection ; it drops the Copulatives in its 
hurry ; and crowds the whole series together as if it were but 
one object. Whereas, when we enumerate, with a view to 
aggravate, the mind is supposed to proceed with a more slow and 
solemn pace ; it marks fully the relation of each object to that 
which succeeds it ; and by joining them together with several 
Copulatives, makes you perceive, that the objects, though con- 
nected, are yet, in themselves distinct ; that they are many, not 
one. Observe, for instance, in the following enumeration, made 
by the Apostle Paul, what additional weight and distinctness is 
given to each particular by the repetition of a conjunction. "I am 
persuaded that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor princi- 
palities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor 
height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate 
us from the love of God." Rom. viii. 38, 39. So much with 
regard to the use of Copulatives. 

I proceed to a third rule for promoting the Strength of a Sen- 
tence, which is to dispose of the capital word, or words, in that 
place of the Sentence where they will make the fullest impression. 
That such capital words there are in every Sentence, on which 
the meaning principally rests, every one must see ; and that 
these words should possess a conspicuous and distinguished place, 
is equally plain. Indeed, that place of the Sentence where they 
will make the best figure, whether the beginning or the end, or 

* " The enemy, having easily beat off and scattered this body of horse, ran down 
with incredible celerity to the river, so that, almost at one moment of time, they 
appeared to be in the woods, and in the river, and in the midst of our troops." 



LECT. XII.] STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 12& 

sometimes even the middle, cannot, as far as I know, be ascer- 
tained by any precise rule. This must vary with the nature of 
the Sentence. Perspicuity must ever be studied in the first 
place, and the nature of our Language allows no great liberty in 
the choice of collocation. For the most part, with us, the im- 
portant words are placed in the beginning of the Sentence. So 
Mr. Addison ; "The pleasures of the imagination, taken in their 
full extent, are not so gross as those of sense, nor so refined as 
those of the understanding," And this, indeed, seems the most 
plain and natural order, to place that in the front which is the 
chief object of the proposition we are laying down. Sometimes, 
however, when we intend to give weight to a Sentence, it is of 
advantage to suspend the meaning for a little, and then bring it 
out full at the close : " Thus," says Mr. Pope, " on whatever 
side we contemplate Homer, what principally strikes us is his 
wonderful invention." (Pref. to Homer.) 

The Greek and Latin writers had a. considerable advantage 
above us, in this part of style. By the great liberty of inversion 
which their Languages permitted, they could choose the most 
advantageous situation for every word ; and had it thereby in 
their power to give their Sentences more force. Milton, in his 
prose works, and some other of our old English writers, endea- 
vour to imitate them in this. But the forced constructions which 
they employed, produced obscurity ; and the genius of our Lan- 
guage, as it is now written and spoken, will not admit such liber- 
ties. Mr. Gordon, who followed this inverted style, in his 
Translation of Tacitus, has, sometimes, done such violence to the 
Language as even to appear ridiculous ; as in this expression : 
"Into this hole thrust themselves, three Roman senators." He 
has translated so simple a phrase as, "Nullum ea tempestate 
bellum," by, "War at that time there was none." However, 
within certain bounds, and to a limited degree, our Language 
does admit of inversions ; and they are practised with success by 
the best writers. So Mr. Pope, speaking of Homer, "The 
praise of judgment Yirgil has justly contested with him, but his 
invention remains yet unrivalled." It is evident, that, in order 
to give the Sentence its due force, by contrasting properly the 
two capital words, "judgment and invention," this is a happier 
arrangement than if he had followed the natural order, which 
was, " Yirgil has justly contested with him the praise of judg- 
ment, but his invention remains yet unrivalled." 

Some writers practise this degree of inversion, which our 
Language bears, much more than others ; Lord Shaftesbury, for 
instance, much more than Mr. Addison; and to this sort of 
arrangement is owing, in a great measure, that appearance of 
strength, dignity, and varied harmony, which Lord Shaftesbury's 
style possesses. This will appear from the following Sentences 
of his Enquiry into Virtue ; where all the words are placed, not 
strictly in the natural order, but with that artificial construction 



130 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [LECT. XII. 

which may give the period most emphasis and grace. He is 
speaking of the misery of vice : " This, as to the complete im- 
moral state, is what of their own accord men readily remark. 
Where there is this absolute degeneracy, this total apostacy from 
all candour, trust, or equity, there are few who do not see and 
acknowledge the misery which is consequent. Seldom is the case 
misconstrued when at worst. The misfortune is, that we look 
not on this depravity, nor consider how it stands, in less degrees. 
As if, to be absolutely immoral, were, indeed, the greatest 
misery ; but to be so in a little degree, should be no misery or 
harm at all. Which to allow, is just as reasonable as to own, 
that 'tis the greatest ill of a body to be in the utmost manner 
maimed or distorted ; but that, to lose the use only of one limb, 
or to be impaired in some single organ or member, is no ill 
worthy the least notice." (Vol. ii. p. 82.) Here is no violence 
done to the Language, though there are many inversions. All 
is stately, and arranged with art ; which is the great character- 
istic of this author's Style. 

We need only open any page of Mr. Addison, to see quite a 
different order in the construction of Sentences. " Our sight is 
the most perfect, and most delightful of all our senses. It fills 
the mind with the largest variety of ideas, converses with its 
objects at the greatest distance, and continues the longest in 
action, without being tired, or satiated with its proper enjoy- 
ments. The sense of feeling can, indeed, give us a notion of 
extension, shape, and all other ideas that enter at the eye, except 
colours ; but, at the same time, it is very much straitened and 
confined in its operations," &c. (Spectator, No. 411.) In this 
strain he always proceeds, following the most natural and obvious 
order of the Language ; and if, by this means, he has less pomp 
and majesty than Shaftesbury, he has, in return, more nature, 
more ease and simplicity ; which are beauties of a higher order. 

But whether we practise inversion or not, and in whatever 
part of the Sentence we dispose of the capital words, it is always 
a point of great moment, that these capital words shall stand 
clear and disentangled from any other words that would clog 
them. Thus, when there are any circumstances of time, place, 
or other limitations, which the principal object of our Sentence 
requires to have connected with it, we must take especial care 
to dispose of them, so as not to cloud that principal object, nor 
to bury it under a load of circumstances. This will be made 
clearer by an example. Observe the arrangement of the follow- 
ing Sentence, in Lord Shaftesbury's Advice to an Author. He 
is speaking of modern poets, as compared with the ancient : " If, 
whilst they profess only to please, they secretly advise, and give 
instruction, they may now, perhaps, as well as formerly, be 
esteemed, with justice, the best and most honourable among 
authors." This is a well-constructed Sentence. It contains a 
great many circumstances and adverbs, necessary to qualify the 



LECT. XII.] STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 131 

meaning; only, secretly, as well, perhaps, now, with justice, for- 
merly; yet, these are placed with so much art as neither to em- 
barrass nor weaken the Sentence ; while that which is the capital 
object in it, viz. " Poets being justly esteemed the best and most 
honourable among authors," comes out in the conclusion clear 
and detached, and possesses its proper place. See, now, what 
would have been the effect of a different arrangement. Suppose 
him to have placed the members of the Sentence thus : " If, 
whilst they profess to please only, they advise and give instruc- 
tion secretly, they may be esteemed the best and most honourable 
among authors, with justice, perhaps, now, as well as formerly." 
Here we have precisely the same words and the same sense ; 
but, by means of the circumstances being so intermingled as to 
clog the capital words, the whole becomes perplexed, without 
grace, and without strength. 

A fourth rule for constructing Sentences with proper strength, 
is, to make the members of them go on rising and growing in 
their importance above one another. This sort of arrangement is 
called a Climax, and is always considered as a beauty in compo- 
sition. From what cause it pleases, is abundantly evident. In 
all things, we naturally love to ascend to what is more and more 
beautiful, rather than to follow the retrograde order. Having had 
once some considerable object set before us, it is with pain we are 
pulled back to attend to an inferior circumstance. " Cavendum 
est," says Quinctilian, whose authority I always willingly quote, 
"ne decrescat oratio, et fortiori subjungatur aliquid infirmius ; 
sicut, sacrilegio, fur ; aut latroni petulans. Augeri enim debent 
sentential et insurgere." * Of this beauty, in the construction of 
Sentences, the orations of Cicero furnish many examples. His 
pompous manner naturally led him to study it, and, generally in 
order to render the climax perfect, he makes both the sense and 
the sound rise together, with a very magnificent swell. So in 
his oration for Milo, speaking of a design of Clodius's for assas- 
inating Pompey : "Atqui si res, si vir, si tempus ullum dignum 
fuit, certe hsec in ilia causa summa omnia fuerunt. Insidiator 
erat in Foro collocatus, atque in Vestibulo ipso Senatus; ei viro 
autem mors parabatur, cujus in vita nitebatur salus civitatis ; eo 
porrd reipublicae tempore, quo si unus ille occidisset, non hsec 
solum civitas, sed gentes omnes concidissent." The following 
instance, from Lord Bolingbroke, is also beautiful : " This 
decency, this grace, this propriety of manners to character, is so 
essential to princes in particular, that, whenever it is neglected, 
their virtues lose a great degree of lustre, and their defects 
acquire much aggravation. Nay more; by neglecting this 
decency and this grace, and for want of a sufficient regard to 

* " Care must be taken that our composition shall not fall off, and that a weaker 
expression shall not follow one of more strength ; as if, after sacrilege, we should bring 
in theft ; or, having mentioned a robbery, we should subjoin petulance. Sentences 
ought always to rise and grow." 



132 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [LECT. XII. 

appearances, even their virtues may betray them into failings, 
their failings into vices, and their vices into habits unworthy of 
princes, and unworthy of men." (Idea of a Patriot King.) 

I must observe, however, that this sort of full and oratorical 
climax, can neither be always obtained, nor ought to be always 
sought after. Only some kinds of writing admit such Sentences ; 
and to study them too frequently, especially if the subject 
require not so much pomp, is affected and disagreeable. But 
there is something approaching to a climax, which it is a general 
rule to study, " ne decrescat oratio," as Quinctilian speaks, " et 
ne fortiori subjungatur aliquid infirmius." A weaker assertion 
or proposition should never come after a stronger one, and when 
our Sentence consists of two members, the longest should, 
generally, be the concluding one. There is a two-fold reason for 
this last direction. Periods thus divided, are pronounced more 
easily ; and the shortest member being placed first, we carry it 
more readily in our memory as we proceed to the second, and 
see the connexion of the two more clearly. Thus, to say, 
" When our passions have forsaken us, we flatter ourselves with 
the belief that we have forsaken them," is both more graceful 
and more clear, than to begin with the longest part of the pro- 
position: "We flatter ourselves with the belief that we have 
forsaken our passions, when they have forsaken us." In general, 
it is always agreeable to find a sentence rising upon us, and 
growing in its importance to the very last word, when this con^ 
struction can be managed without affectation or unseasonable 
pomp. "If we rise yet higher," says Mr. Addison, very beau- 
tifully, " and consider the fixed stars as so many oceans of flame, 
that are each of them attended with a different set of planets ; 
and still discover new firmaments and new lights, that are sunk 
farther in those unfathomable depths of aether ; we are lost in 
such a labyrinth of suns and worlds, and confounded with the 
magnificence and immensity of nature." (Spectator No. 420.) 
Hence follows clearly, 

A fifth rule for the strength of Sentences ; which is, to avoid 
concluding them with an adverb, a preposition, or any inconside^ 
rable word. Such conclusions are always enfeebling and degrad- 
ing. There are sentences, indeed, where the stress and significancy 
rest chiefly upon some words of this kind, In this case they are 
not to be considered as circumstances, but as the capital figures ; 
and ought, in propriety, to have the principal place allotted them, 
No fault, for instance, can be found with this sentence of Boling- 
broke's ; " In tbeir prosperity my friends shall never hear of 
me ; in their adversity, always. " Where never, and always, 
being emphatical words, were to be so placed, as to make a 
strong impression. But I speak now of those inferior parts of 
speech, when introduced as circumstances, or as qualifications of 
more important words. In such case they should always be 
disposed of in the least conspicuous parts of the period ; and so 



LECT. XII*] STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 133 

classed with other words of greater dignity, as to be kept in their 
proper secondary station. 

Agreeably to this rule, we should always avoid concluding 
with any of those particles which mark the cases of nouns — of, 
to, from, with, by. For instance, it is a great deal better to say, 
" Avarice is a crime of which wise men are often guilty," than 
to say, " Avarice is a crime which wise men are often guilty of." 
This is a phraseology which all correct writers shun ; and with 
reason. For, besides the want of dignity which arises from 
those monosyllables at the end, the imagination cannot avoid 
resting, for a little, on the import of the word which closes the 
sentence : and, as those prepositions have no import of their own, 
but only serve to point out the relations of other words, it is 
disagreeable for the mind to be left pausing on a word, which 
does not, by itself, produce any idea, nor form any picture in the 
fancy. 

For the same reason, verbs which are used in a compound 
sense, with some of these prepositions, are, though not so bad, 
yet still not so beautiful conclusions of a period; such as, bring 
about, lay hold of, come over to, clear up, and many others of this 
kind; instead of which, if we can employ a simple verb, it 
always terminates the sentence with more strength. Even the 
pronoun it, though it has the import of a substantive noun, and 
indeed often forces itself upon us unavoidably, yet, when we 
want to give dignity to a sentence, should, if possible, be avoided 
in the conclusion ; more especially when it is joined with some 
of the prepositions, as with it, in it, to it. In the following Sen- 
tence of the Spectator, which otherwise is abundantly noble, the 
bad effect of this close is sensible : *' There is not, in my opinion, 
a more pleasing and triumphant consideration in religion, than 
this, of the perpetual progress which the soul makes towards the 
perfection of its nature, without even arriving at a period in it." 
(No. 111). How much more graceful the Sentence, if it had 
been so constructed as to close with the word period. 

Besides particles and pronouns, any phrase, which expresses a 
circumstance only, always brings up the rear of a sentence with 
a bad grace. We may judge of this, by the following Sentence 
from Lord Bolingbroke (Letter on the State of Parties at the 
Accession of King George I.) : " Let me, therefore, conclude 
by repeating, that division has caused all the mischief we lament ; 
that union alone can retrieve it; and that a great advance 
towards this union was the coalition of parties, so happily begun, 
so successfully carried on, and of late so unaccountably neglected ; 
to say no worse." This last phrase, to say no worse, occasions a 
sad falling off at the end ; so much the more unhappy, as the 
rest of the Period is conducted after the manner of a climax, 
which we expect to find growing to the last. 

The proper disposition of such circumstances in a sentence is 
often attended with considerable trouble in order to adjust them 



134 STRUCTURE OP SENTENCES. [LECT. XII. 

so, as shall consist equally with the perspicuity and the grace of 
the period. Though necessary parts, they are, however, like 
unshapely stones in a building, which try the skill of an artist, 
where to place them with the least offence. " Jungantur," says 
Quinctilian, " quo congruunt maxime ; sicut in structura saxo- 
rum rudium, etiam ipsa enormitas invenit cui applicari, et in quo 
possit insistere." * 

The close is always an unsuitable place for them. When the 
sense admits it, the sooner they are dispatched, generally 
speaking, the better; that the more important and significant 
words may possess the last place, quite disencumbered. It is a 
rule too, never to crowd too many circumstances together, but 
rather to intersperse them in different parts of the sentence, 
joined with the capital words on which they depend ; provided 
that care be taken, as I before directed, not to clog those capital 
words with them. For instance, when Dean Swift says, " What 
I had the honour of mentioning to your Lordship, some time 
ago, in conversation, was not a new thought." (Letter to the 
Earl of Oxford). These two circumstances, some time ago, and 
in conversation, which are here put together, would have had a 
better effect disjoined thus : " What I had the honour sometime 
ago, of mentioning to your Lordship in conversation." And in 
the following Sentence of Lord Bolingbroke's (Remarks on the 
History of England) : " A monarchy, limited like ours, may be 
placed, for aught I know, as it has been often represented, just 
in the middle point, from whence a deviation leads, on the one 
hand, to tyranny, and on the other to anarc y." The arrange- 
ment would have been happier thus : " A monarchy, limited like 
ours, may, for ought I know, be placed, as it has often been 
represented, just in the middle point," &c. 

I shall give only one rule more, relating to the strength of a 
Sentence; which is, that in the members of a Sentence where 
two things are compared or contrasted to each other; where 
either a resemblance or an opposition is intended to be expressed ; 
some resemblance, in the language and construction, should be 
preserved. For when the things themselves correspond to each 
other, we naturally expect to find the words corresponding too. 
We are disappointed when it is otherwise ; and the comparison, 
or contrast, appears more imperfect. 

Thus, when Lord Bolingbroke says, " The laughers will be for 
those who have most wit ; the serious part of mankind for those 
who have most reason on their side." (Dissert, on Parties, Pref.) 
The opposition would have been more complete if he had said ; 
" The laughers will be for those who have most wit ; the serious 
for those who have most reason on their side." The following 

* Let them be inserted wherever the happiest place for them can be found ; as, in a 
structure composed of rough stones, there are always places where the most irregular 
and unshapely may find some adjacent one to which it can be joined, and some basis 
on which it may rest." 



LECT. XII.] STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 135 

passage from Mr. Pope's Preface to his Homer, fully exem- 
plifies the rule I am now giving: Homer was the greater 
genius ; Virgil the better artist : in the one, we most admire the 
man ; in the other, the work. Homer hurries us with a com- 
manding impetuosity ; Virgil leads us with an attractive majesty. 
Homer scatters with a generous profusion ; Virgil bestows with 
a careful magnificence. Homer, like the Nile, pours out his 
riches with a sudden overflow ; Virgil, like a river in its banks, 

with a constant stream. And when we look upon their 

machines, Homer seems like his own Jupiter in his terrors, 
shaking Olympus, scattering the lightnings, and firing the 
heavens ; Virgil, like the same power in his benevolence, coun- 
selling with the gods, laying plans for empires, and ordering his 
whole creation." — Periods thus constructed, when introduced 
with propriety, and not returning too often, have a sensible 
beauty. But we must beware of carrying our attention to this 
beauty too far. It ought only to be occasionally studied, when 
comparison or opposition of objects naturally leads to it. If 
such a construction as this be aimed at in all our Sentences, it 
leads to a disagreeable uniformity ; produces a regularly return- 
ing clink in the period, which tires the ear ; and plainly discovers 
affectation. Among the ancients, the style of Isocrates is faulty 
in this respect; and, on that account, by some of their best 
critics, particularly by Dionysius of Halicarnassus, he is severely 
censured. 

This finishes what I had to say concerning Sentences, consi- 
dered, with respect to their meaning, under the three heads of 
Perspicuity, Unity, and Strength. It is a subject on which I 
have insisted fully, for two reasons : First, because it is a subject 
which, by its nature, can be rendered more didactic, and sub- 
jected more to precise rule, than many other subjects of criticism ; 
and next, because it appears to me of considerable importance 
and use. 

For, though many of those attentions, which I have been 
recommending, may appear minute, yet their effect, upon 
Writing and Style, is much greater than might, at first, be 
imagined. A sentiment which is expressed in a Period, clearly, 
neatly, and happily arranged, makes always a stronger impres- 
sion on the mind than one that is feeble or embarrassed. Every 
one feels this upon a comparison : and if the effect be sensible in 
one sentence, how much more in a whole discourse, or compo- 
sition, that is made up of such Sentences. 

The fundamental rule of the construction of sentences, and 
into which all others might be resolved, undoubtedly is, to com- 
municate, in the clearest and most natural order, the ideas which 
we mean to transfuse into the minds of others. Every arrange- 
ment that does most justice to the sense, and expresses it to most 
advantage, strikes us as beautiful. To this point have tended all 
the rules I have given. And indeed, did men always think 



136 HARMONY OF SENTENCES. [LECT. XIII. 

clearly, and were they, at the same time, fully masters of the 
Language in which they write, there would be occasion for few 
rules. Their sentences would then, of course, acquire all those 
properties of Precision, Unity, and Strength, which I have 
recommended. For we may rest assured, that, whenever we 
express ourselves ill, there is, besides the mismanagement of 
Language, for the most part, some mistake in our manner of 
conceiving the subject. Embarrassed, obscure, and feeble sen- 
tences, are generally, if not always, the result of embarrassed, 
obscure, and feeble thought. Thought and language act and 
re-act upon each other mutually. Logic and Rhetoric have here, 
as in many other cases, a strict connexion; and he that is 
learning to arrange his sentences with accuracy and order, is 
learning at the same time to think with accuracy and order ; an 
observation which alone will justify all the care and attention we 
have bestowed on this subject. 



LECTURE XIII. 

STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. HARMONY. 

Hitherto we have considered sentences, with respect to their 
meaning, under the heads of Perspicuity, Unity, and Strength. 
We are now to consider them, with respect to their sound, their 
harmony, or agreeableness to the ear ; which was the last quality 
belonging to them that I proposed to treat of. 

Sound is a quality much inferior to sense ; yet such as must 
not be disregarded. For, as long as sounds are the vehicle of 
conveyance for our ideas, there will be always a very consi- 
derable connexion between the idea which is conveyed, and the 
nature of the sound w T hich conveys it. Pleasing ideas can 
hardly be transmitted to the mind, by means of harsh and 
disagreeable sounds. The imagination revolts as soon as it hears 
them uttered. "Nihil," says Quinctilian, "potest intrare in 
affectum quod in aure, velut quodam vestibulo statim offendit." # 
Music has naturally a great power over all men to prompt and 
facilitate certain emotions ; insomuch, that there are hardly any 
dispositions which we wish to raise in others, but certain sounds 
may be found concordant to those dispositions, and tending to 
promote them. Now, Language may, in some degree, be ren- 
dered capable of this power of music; a circumstance which 
must needs heighten our idea of Language as a wonderful 
invention. Not content with simply interpreting our ideas to 
others, it can give them those ideas enforced by corresponding 

* " Nothing can enter into the affections, which stumhles at the threshold, by 
offending the ear." 



LECT. XIII.] HARMONY OF SENTENCES. 137 

sounds ; and to the pleasure of communicated thought, can add 
the new and separate pleasure of melody. 

In the Harmony of Periods, two things may be considered. 
First, agreeable sound, or modulation in general, without any 
particular expression : Next, the sound so ordered, as to become 
expressive of the sense. The first is the more common ; the 
second, the higher beauty. 

First, Let us consider agreeable sound, in general, as the pro~ 
perty of a well-constructed Sentence : and, as it was of prose 
sentences we have hitherto treated, we shall confine ourselves 
to them under this head. This beauty of musical construction 
in prose, it is plain will depend upon two things; the choice 
of words, and the arrangement of them. 

I begin with the choice of words ; on which head there is not 
much to be said, unless I were to descend into a tedious and fri- 
volous detail concerning the powers of the several letters, or 
simple sounds, of which speech is composed. It is evident that 
words are most agreeable to the ear which are composed of 
smooth and liquid sounds, where there is a proper intermixture 
of vowels and consonants ; without too many harsh consonants 
rubbing against each other; or too many open vowels in suc- 
cession, to cause a hiatus or disagreeable aperture of the mouth. 
It may always be assumed as a principle, that, whatever sounds 
are difficult in pronunciation, are, in the same proportion, harsh 
and painful to the ear. Vowels give softness ; consonants, 
strength to the sound of words. The music of Language 
requires a just proportion of both; and will be hurt, will be 
rendered either grating or effeminate, by an excess of either. 
Long words are commonly more agreeable to the ear than mono- 
syllables. They please it by the composition or succession of 
sounds which they present to it ; and accordingly the most 
musical Languages abound most in them. Among words of any 
length, those are the most musical, which do not run wholly 
either upon long or short syllables, but are composed of an inter- 
mixture of them; such as re-pent, -produce, velocity, celerity, in- 
dependent, impetuosity. 

The next head, respecting the Harmony which results from 
a proper arrangement of the words and members of a Period, 
is more complex, and of greater nicety. For let the words 
themselves be ever so well chosen, and well sounding, yet, if 
they be ill disposed, the music of the sentence is utterly lost. 
In the harmonious structure and disposition of Periods, no writer 
whatever, ancient or modern, equals Cicero. He had studied 
this with care ; and was fond, perhaps to excess, of what he 
calls, the " Plena ac numerosa oratio." We need only open his 
writings to find instances that will render the effect of musical 
Language sensible to every ear. What, for example, can be 
more full, round, and swelling, than the following Sentence of 
the fourth Oration against Catiline ? " Cogitate quantis labori- 

M 



138 HARMONY OF SENTENCES. [LECT. XIII. 

bus fundatum imperium, quanta virtute stabilitam libertatem, 
quanta Deorum benignitate auctas exaggeratasque fortunas, una 
nox pene delerit." In English, we may take for an instance of 
musical Sentence, the following from Milton, in his treatise on 
Education : " We shall conduct you to a hill-side, laborious 
indeed, at the first ascent ; but else, so smooth, so green, so full 
of goodly prospects, and melodious sounds on every side, that 
the harp of Orpheus was not more charming." Every thing in 
this sentence conspires to promote the harmony. The words 
are happily chosen ; full of liquids and soft sounds ; laborious, 
smooth, preen, goodly, melodious, charming: and these words so 
artfully arranged, that were we to alter the collocation of any 
one of them, we should, presently, be sensible of the melody 
suffering. For, let us observe, how finely the members of the 
Period swell one above another. " So smooth, so green," — " so 
full of goodly prospects, and melodious sounds on every side ;" — 
till the ear, prepared by this gradual rise, is conducted to that 
full close on which it rests with pleasure ; — " that the harp of 
Orpheus was not more charming." 

The structure of Periods, then, being susceptible of a very 
sensible melody, our next inquiry should be, How this melodious 
structure is formed, what are the principles of it, and by what 
laws is it regulated? And, upon this subject, were I to follow 
the ancient rhetoricians, it would be easy to give a great variety 
of rules. For here they have entered into a very minute and 
particular detail, more particular, indeed, than on any other head 
that regards Language. They hold, that to prose, as well as to 
verse, there belong certain numbers, less strict, indeed, yet such 
as can be ascertained by rule. They go so far as to specify the 
feet, as they are called, that is, the succession of long and 
short syllables which should enter into the different members of a 
sentence, and to show what the effect of each of these will be. 
Wherever they treat of the Structure of Sentences, it is always 
the music of them that makes the principal object. Cicero and 
Quinctilian are full of this. The other qualities of Precision, 
Unity, and Strength, which we consider as of great importance, 
they handle slightly ; but when they come to the " junctura et 
numerus," the modulation and harmony, there they are copious. 
Dionysius of Halicarnassus, one of the most judicious critics of an- 
tiquity, has written a treatise on the Composition of Words in 
a Sentence, which is altogether confined to their musical effect. 
He makes the excellency of a sentence to consist in four things : 
first, in the sweetness of single sounds ; secondly, in the com- 
position of sounds; that is, the numbers or feet; thirdly, in 
change or variety of sound ; and fourthly, in sound suited to the 
sense. On all these points, he writes with great accuracy and 
refinement, and is very worthy of being consulted ; though, 
were one now to write a book on the Structure of Sentences, 
we should expect to find the subject treated of in a more exten- 
sive manner. 



LECT. XIII.] HAKMONY OF SENTENCES. 139 

In modern times, this whole subject of the musical structure 
of discourse, it is plain, has been much less studied : and indeed, 
for several reasons, can be much less subjected to rule. The 
reasons it will be necessary to give, both to justify my not 
following the tract of the ancient rhetoricians on this subject, 
and to show how it has come to pass, that a part of composition, 
which once made so conspicuous a figure, now draws much 
less attention. 

In the first place, the ancient Languages, I mean the Greek 
and the Roman, were much more susceptible a than ours, of the 
graces and the powers of melody. The quantities of their syllables 
were more fixed and determined; their words were longer and 
more sonorous ; their method of varying the terminations of 
nouns and verbs, both introduced a greater variety of liquid 
sounds, and freed them from that multiplicity of little auxiliary 
words which we are obliged to employ ; and, what is of the 
greatest consequence, the inversions which their Languages 
allowed, gave them the power of placing their words in what- 
ever order was most suited to a musical arrangement. All 
these were great advantages which they enjoyed above us, for 
Harmony of Period. 

In the next place, the Greeks and Romans, the former espe- 
cially, were, in truth, much more musical nations than we ; their 
genius was more turned to delight in the melody of speech. 
Music is known to have been a more extensive art among them 
than it is with us ; more generally studied, and applied to a 
greater variety of objects. Several learned men, particularly 
the Abbe du Bos, in his Reflections on Poetry and Painting, 
have clearly proved, that the theatrical compositions of the an- 
cients, both their tragedies and comedies, were set to a kind of 
music. Whence the Modos fecit, and the Tibiis dextris et sinis- 
tris, prefixed to the editions of Terence's Plays. All sort of 
declamation and public speaking was carried on by them in a 
much more musical tone than it is among us. It approached to a 
kind of chanting or recitative. Among the Athenians, there 
was what was called the Nomic Melody ; or a particular mea- 
sure prescribed to the public officers, in which they were to pro- 
mulgate the laws to the people ; lest by reading them with 
improper tones, the laws might be exposed to contempt. Among 
the Romans, there is a noted story of C. Gracchus, when he was 
declaiming in public, having a musician standing at his back, 
in order to give him the proper tones with a pipe or flute. Even 
when pronouncing those terrible tribunitial harangues, by which 
he inflamed the one half of the citizens of Rome against the 
other, this attention to the music of Speech, was, in those times, 
it seems, thought necessary to success. Quinctilian, though he 
condemns the excess of this sort of pronunciation yet allows a 
" cantus obscurior" to be a beauty in a public speaker. Hence 
that variety of accents, acute, grave, and circumflex, which we 

M 2 



140 HARMONY OF SENTENCES. [LECT. XIII. 

find marked upon the Greek syllables, to express, not the quan- 
tity of them, but the tone in which they were to be spoken, the 
application of which is now wholly unknown to us. And though 
the Romans did not mark those accents in their writing, yet it 
appears from Quinctilian, that they used them in pronun- 
ciation : " Quantum quale? says he, " comparantes gravi, in- 
terrogates acuto tenore concludunt." As music, then, was an 
object much more attended to in Speech, among the Greeks and 
Romans, than it is with us ; as, in all kinds of public speaking, 
they employed a much greater variety of notes, of tones, or in- 
flexions of voice, than we use ; this is one clear reason of their 
paying a great attention to that construction of Sentences, which 
might best suit this musical pronunciation. 

It is further known, that in consequence of the genius of 
their Languages, and of their manner of pronouncing them, the 
musical arrangement of Sentences, did, in fact, produce a 
greater effect in public speaking among them, than it could 
possibly do in any modern oration ; another reason why it de- 
served to be more studied. Cicero, in his treatise entitled 
Orator, tells us, " Conciones saepe exclamare vidi, cum verba 
apte cecidissent. Id enim expectant aures."* And he gives a 
remarkable instance of the effect of an harmonious period upon 
a whole assembly, from a Sentence of one of Carbo's Orations, 
spoken in his hearing. The sentence was, " Patris dictum 
sapiens temeritas filii comprobravit. " By means of the 
sound of which, alone, he tells us, " Tantus clamor concio- 
nis excitatus est, ut prorsus admirabile esset." He makes 
us remark the feet of which these words consist, to which 
he ascribes the power of the melody ; and shows how, by 
altering the collocation, the whole effect would be lost; as 
thus: "Patris dictum sapiens comprobravit temeritas filii." 
Now, though it be true that Carbo's Sentence is extremely 
musical, and would be agreeable at this day, to an audience, yet 
I cannot believe that an English Sentence, equally harmonious, 
would by its harmony alone, produce any such effect on a British 
audience, or excite any such wonderful applause and admiration, 
as Cicero informs us this of Carbo produced. Our northern ears 
are too coarse and obtuse. The melody of Speech has less 
power over us ; and by our simpler and plainer method of 
uttering words, Speech is, in truth, accompanied with less 
melody than it was among the Greeks and Romans, f 

For these reasons, I am of opinion, that it is vain to think of 
bestowing the same attention upon the harmonious structure of 

* " I have often been witness to bursts of exclamation in the public assemblies, 
when sentences closed musically, for that is a pleasure which the ear expects." ■ 

t " In versu quidem, theatra tota exclamant si fuit una syllaba aut brevior aut 
longior. Nee vero multitudo pedis novit, nee ullos numeros tenet; nee illud quod 
offendit, aut cur, aut in quo offendat, intelligit ; et tamen omnium longitudinum et bre- 
vitatum in sonis, sicut acutarum, graviumque vocum, judicium ipsa natura in auribus 
nostris collocavit." Cicero, Orator, c. 51. 



LECT. XIII.] HARMONY OF SENTENCES, 141 

our Sentences, that was bestowed by these ancient nations. The 
doctrine of the Greek and Roman critics, on this head, had mis- 
led some to imagine, that it might be equally applied to our 
Tongue; and that our prose writing might be regulated by 
Spondees, and Trochees, and Iambus's and Paeons, and other 
metrical feet. But, first, our words cannot be measured, or, 
at least, can be measured very imperfectly by any feet of this 
kind. For the quantity, the length and shortness of our sylla- 
bles, is far from being so fixed and subjected to rule, as in the 
Greek and Roman tongues; but very often left arbitrary, 
and determined by the emphasis and the sense. Next, though 
our prose could admit of such metrical regulation, yet from our 
plainer method of pronouncing all sort of discourse, the effect 
would not be at all so sensible to the ear, nor be relished with so 
much pleasure, as among the Greeks and Romans : And, lastly, 
this whole doctrine about the measures and numbers of prose, 
even as it is delivered by the ancient rhetoricians themselves, is, 
in truth, in a great measure loose and uncertain. It appears, 
indeed, that the melody of discourse was a matter of infinitely 
more attention to them, than ever it has been to the moderns. 
But though they write a great deal about it, they have never 
been able to reduce it to any rules which could be of real use in 
practice. If we consult Cicero's Orator, where this point is dis- 
cussed with the most minuteness, we shall see how much these 
ancient critics differed from one another, about the feet proper 
for the conclusion, and other parts of a Sentence: and how 
much, after all, was left to the judgment of the ear. Nor, 
indeed, is it possible to give precise rules concerning this matter, 
in any Language; as all prose composition must be allowed 
to run loose in its numbers ; and, according as the tenor of a 
discourse varies, the modulation of Sentences must vary infinitely. 

But, although I apprehend that this musical arrangement 
cannot be reduced into a system, I am far from thinking, that 
it is a quality to be neglected in composition. On the contrary, 
I hold its effect to be very considerable; and that every 
one who studies to write with grace, much more who seeks 
to pronounce in public with success, will be obliged to attend 
to it not a little. But it is his ear, cultivated by attention 
and practice, that must chiefly direct him. For any rules 
that can be given, on this subject, are very general. Some rules, 
however, there are, which may be of use to form the ear to the 
proper harmony of discourse. I proceed to mention such as ap- 
pear to me the most material. 

There are two things on which the music of a Sentence 
chiefly depends. These are, the proper distribution of the 
several members of it ; and, the close or cadence of the whole. 

First, I say, the distribution of the several members is to be 
carefully attended to. It is of importance to observe, that, 
whatever is easy and agreeable to the organs of Speech, always 



142 HARMONY OF SENTENCES. [LECT. XIII. 

sounds grateful to the ear. While a period is going on, the 
termination of each of its members forms a pause, or rest, in 
pronouncing : and these rests should be so distributed, as to make 
the course of the breathing easy, and, at the same time, should 
fall at such distances, as to bear a certain musical proportion to 
each other. This [will be best illustrated by examples. The 
following sentence is from Archbishop Tillotson: " This dis- 
course concerning the easiness of God's commands does, all 
along, suppose and acknowledge the difficulties of the first en- 
trance upon a religious course ; except only in those persons who 
have had the happiness to be trained up to religion by the easy 
and insensible degrees of a pious and virtuous education." Here 
there is no harmony ; nay, there is some degree of harshness 
and unpleasantness ; owing principally to this, that there is, pro- 
perly, no more than one pause or rest in the Sentence, falling 
betwixt the two members into which it is divided ; each of which 
is so long, as to occasion a considerable stretch of the breath in 
pronouncing it. 

Observe now, on the other hand, the ease with which the 
following Sentence, from Sir William Temple, glides along, and 
the graceful intervals at which the pauses are placed. He is 
speaking sarcastically of man : " But, God be thanked, his pride 
is greater than his ignorance, and what he wants in knowledge, 
he supplies by sufficiency. When he has looked about him, as 
far as he can, he concludes, there is no more to be seen ; when 
he is at the end of his line, he is at the "bottom of the ocean ; 
when he has shot his best, he is sure none ever did, or ever 
can, shoot better or beyond it. His own reason he holds to be 
the certain measure of truth ; and his own knowledge, of what is 
possible in nature."* Here every thing is, at once, easy to the 
breath, and grateful to the ear; and, it is this sort of flowing 
measure, this regular and proportional division of the members 
of his Sentences, which renders Sir William Temple's style 
always agreeable. I must observe, at the same time, that a 
Sentence, with too many rests, and these placed at intervals too 
apparently measured and regular, is apt to savour of affectation. 

The next thing to be attended to, is, the Close or Cadence of 
the whole sentence, which, as it is always the part most sensible 
to .the ear, demands the greatest care. So Quinctilian : " Non 
igitur durum sit, neque abruptum, quo animi, velut, respirant ac 
reficiuntur. Haec est secies orationis ; hoc auditor expectat ; hie 

* Or this instance. — He is addressing himself to Lady Essex, upon the death of her 
child : " I was once in hope, that what was so violent could not be long : But, when I 
observed your grief to grow stronger with age, and to increase, like a stream, the 
farther it ran ; when I saw it draw out to such unhappy consequences, and to threaten 
no less than your child, your health, and your life, I could no longer forbear this 
endeavour, nor end it without begging of you, for God's sake and for your own, for your 
children and your friends, your country and your family, that you would no longer 
abandon yourself to a disconsolate passion ; but that you would, at length, awaken your 
piety, give way to your prudence, or, at least, rouse the invincible spirit of the Percys, 
that never yet shrunk at any disaster." 



LECT. XIII.] HARMONY OF SENTENCES. 143 

laus omnis declamat."* The only important rule that can be 
given here, is, that when we aim at dignity or elevation, the 
sound should be made to grow to the last ; the longest members 
of the period, and the fullest and most sonorous words, should 
be reserved to the conclusion. As an example of this, the 
following sentence of Mr. Addison's may be given : " It fills the 
mind (speaking of sight) with the largest variety of ideas ; con- 
verses with its objects at the greatest distance ; and continues 
the longest in action, without being tired or satiated with its 
proper enjoyments." Every reader must be sensible of a beauty 
here, both in the proper division of the members and pauses, and 
the manner in which the sentence is rounded, and conducted to 
a full and harmonious close. 

The same holds in melody, that I observed to take place with 
respect to significancy ; that a falling off at the end always hurts 
greatly. For this reason, particles, pronouns, and little words, 
are as ungracious to the ear, at the conclusion, as I formerly 
showed they were inconsistent with strength of expression. It 
is more than probable, that the sense and the sound have here 
a mutual influence on each other. That which hurts the ear, 
seems to mar the strength of the meaning; and that which 
really degrades the sense, in consequence of this primary effect, 
appears also to have a bad sound. How disagreeable is the 
following sentence of an author, speaking of the Trinity : " It is 
a mystery which we firmly believe the truth of, and humbly 
adore the depth of." And how easily might it have been mended 
by this transposition : " It is a mystery, the truth of which we 
firmly believe, and the depth of which we humbly adore." In 
general, it seems to hold, that a musical close, in our language, 
requires either the last syllable, or the last but one, to be a long 
syllable. Words which consist mostly of short syllables, as, 
contrary, -particular, retrospect, seldom conclude a sentence har- 
moniously, unless a run of long syllables, before, has rendered 
them agreeable to the ear. 

It is necessary, however, to observe, that sentences, so con- 
structed as to make the sound always swell and grow towards 
the end, and to rest either on long or a penult long syllable, give 
a discourse the tone of declamation. The ear soon becomes 
acquainted with the melody, and is apt to be cloyed with it. 
If we would keep up the attention of the reader or nearer, if we 
would preserve vivacity and strength in our composition, we 
must be very attentive to vary our measures. This regards the 
distribution of the members, as well as the cadence of the 
period. Sentences constructed in a similar manner, with the 
pauses falling at equal intervals, should never follow one another. 
Short sentences should be intermixed with long and swelling 

* "Let there be nothing harsh or abrupt in the conclusion of the sentence, on which 
the mind pauses and rests. This is the most material part in the structure of Dis- 
course. Here every hearer expects to be grained ; here his applause breaks forth." 



144 HARMONY OF SENTENCES. [LECT. XIII. 

ones, to render discourse sprightly, as well as magnificent. Even 
discords, properly introduced, abrupt sounds, departures from 
regular cadence, have sometimes a good effect. Monotony is 
the great fault into which writers are apt to fall, who are fond of 
harmonious arrangement: and to have only one tune or measure, 
is not much better than having none at all. A very vulgar ear 
will enable a writer to catch some one melody, and to form the 
run of his Sentences according to it : which soon proves disgust- 
ing. But a just and correct ear is requisite for varying and 
diversifying the melody, and hence we so seldom meet with 
authors, who are remarkably happy in this respect. 

Though attention to the music of Sentences must not be 
neglected, yet it must also be kept within proper bounds ; for all 
appearances of an author's affecting harmony, are disagreeable ; 
especially when the love of it betrays him so far, as to sacrifice, 
in any instance, perspicuity, precision, or strength of sentiment, 
to sound. All unmeaning words, introduced merely to round the 
period, or fill up the melody, complementa numerorum, as Cicero 
calls them, are great blemishes in writing. They are childish 
and puerile ornaments, by which a sentence always loses more 
in point of weight, than it can gain by such additions to the 
beauty of its sound. Sense has its own harmony, as well as 
sound ; and, where the sense of a period is expressed with clear- 
ness, force, and dignity, it will seldom happen but the words will 
strike the ear agreeably ; at least, a very moderate attention is 
all that is requisite for making the cadence of such a period 
pleasing : and the effect of greater attention is often no other, 
than to render composition languid and enervated. After all 
the labour which Quinctilian bestows on regulating the measures 
of prose, he comes, at last, with his usual good sense, to this 
conclusion : " In universum, si sit necesse, durum potius atque 
asperam compositionem malim esse, quam effeminatam ac ener- 
vem, qualis apud multos. Ideoque, vincta quaedam de industria 
sunt solvenda, ne laborata videantur ; neque ullum idoneum 
aut aptum verbum prsetermittamus, gratia lenitatis." # Lib. 
ix. c. 4. 

Cicero, as I before observed, is one of the most remarkable 
patterns of a harmonious style. His love of it, however, is too 
visible ; and the pomp of his numbers sometimes detracts from 
his strength. That noted close of his, esse videatur, which, in 
the Oration Pro Lege Manilia, occurs eleven times, exposed him 
to censure among his contemporaries. We must observe, how- 
ever, in defence of this great Orator, that there is a remarkable 
union in his style, of harmony with ease, which is always a great 

* " Upon the whole, I would rather choose that composition should appear rough and 
harsh, if that be necessary, than that it should be enervated and effeminate, such as we 
find the style of too many. Some sentences, therefore, which we have studiously 
formed into melody, should be thrown loose, that they may not seem too much laboured; 
nor ought we ever to omit any proper or expressive word, for the sake of smoothing a 
period." 



LECT. XIII.] EAEMONY OF SENTENCES. 145 

beauty ; and if his harmony be studied, that study appears to 
have cost him little trouble. 

Among our English classics, not many are distinguished for 
musical arrangement. Milton, in some of his prose works, has 
very finely-turned periods ; but the writers of his age indulged 
a liberty of inversion, which now would be reckoned contrary to 
purity of style : and though this allowed their sentences to be 
more stately and sonorous, yet it gave them too much of a 
Latinized construction and order. Of later writers, Shaftesbury 
is, upon the whole, the most correct in his numbers. As his ear 
was delicate, he has attended to music in all his sentences ; and 
he is peculiarly happy in this respect, that he has avoided the 
monotony into which writers, who study the grace of sound, are 
very apt to fall : having diversified his periods with great variety. 
Mr. Addison has also much harmony in his style; more easy and 
smooth, but less varied than Lord Shaftesbury. Sir William 
Temple is, in general, very flowing and agreeable. Archbishop 
Tillotson is too often careless and languid ; and is much outdone 
by Bishop Atterbury in the music of his periods. Dean Swift 
despised musical arrangement altogether. 

Hitherto I have discoursed of agreeable sound, or modulation, 
in general. It yet remains to treat of a higher beauty of this 
kind ; the sound adapted to the sense. The former was no more 
than a simple accompaniment, to please the ear ; the latter sup- 
poses a peculiar expression given to the music. We may remark 
two degrees of it : First, the current of sound, adapted to the 
tenor of a discourse : next, a particular resemblance effected 
between some object, and the sounds that are employed in de- 
scribing it. 

First, I say, the current of sound may be adapted to the tenor 
of a discourse. Sounds have, in many respects, a correspondence 
with our ideas ; partly natural, partly the effect of artificial asso- 
ciations. Hence it happens, that any one modulation of sound 
continued, imprints on our Style a certain character and ex- 
pression. Sentences constructed with the Ciceronian fulness 
and swell, produce the impression of what is important, magni- 
ficent, sedate ; for this is the natural tone which such a course 
of sentiment assumes. But they suit no violent passion, no 
eager reasoning, no familiar address. These always require 
measures brisker, easier, and often more abrupt. And, there- 
fore, to swell, or to let down the periods, as the subject demands, 
is a very important rule in oratory. No one tenor whatever, 
supposing it to produce no bad effect from satiety, will answer 
to all different compositions ; nor even to all the parts of the 
same composition. It were as absurd to write a panegyric, and 
an invective, in a style of the same cadence, as to set the words 
of a tender love-song to the air of a warlike march. 

Observe how finely the following Sentence of Cicero is 
adapted, to represent the tranquillity and ease of a satisfied state : 



146 HAKMONY OF SENTENCES. [LECT. XIII. 

" Etsi homini nihil est magis optandum quam prospera, aequa- 
bilis, perpetuaque fortuna, secundo, vitae sine ulla ofFensione 
cursu ; tamen, si mihi tranquilla et placata omnia fuissent, incre- 
dibili quadam et pene divina, qua nunc vestro beneficio fruor, 
laetitiae voluptate caruissem."* Nothing was ever more perfect 
in its kind: it paints, if we may so speak, to the ear. But who 
would not have laughed, if Cicero had employed such periods, or 
such a cadence as this, in inveighing against Mark Antony, or 
Catiline ? What is requisite, therefore, is, that we previously 
fix, in our mind, a just idea of the general tone of sound which 
suits our subject ; that is, which the sentiments we are to ex- 
press, most naturally assume, and in which they most commonly 
vent themselves, whether round and smooth, or stately and 
solemn, or brisk and quick, or interrupted and abrupt. This 
general idea must direct the modulation of our periods : to 
speak in the style of music, must give us the key note, must 
form the ground of the melody ; varied and diversified in parts, 
according as either our sentiments are diversified, or as is requi- 
site for producing a suitable variety to gratify the ear. 

It may be proper to remark, that our translators of the Bible 
have often been happy in suiting their numbers to the subject. 
Grave, solemn, and majestic subjects undoubtedly require such 
an arrangement of words as runs much on long syllables ; and, 
particularly, they require the close to rest upon such. The very 
first verses of the Bible are remarkable for this melody : " In 
the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth ; and the 
earth was without form, and void ; and darkness was upon the 
face of the deep ; and the Spirit of God moved upon the face of 
the waters." Several other passages, particularly some of the 
Psalms, afford striking examples of this sort of grave, melodious 
construction. Any composition that rises considerably above 
the ordinary tone of prose, such as monumental inscriptions, and 
panegyrical characters, naturally runs into numbers of this kind. 

But, in the next place, besides the general correspondence 
of the current of sound with the current of thought, there may 
be a more particular expression attempted, of certain objects, by 
means of resembling sounds. This can be sometimes accom- 
plished in prose composition; but there only in a more faint 
degree ; nor is it so much expected there. In poetry, chiefly, it 
is looked for ; where attention to sound is more demanded, and 
where the inversions and liberties of poetical style give us a 
greater command of sound ; assisted, too, by the versification, 
and that cantus obscurior, to which we are naturally led in read- 
ing poetry. This requires a little more illustration. 

The sounds of words may be employed for representing, 
chiefly, three classes of objects ; first, other sounds ; secondly, 
motion ; and, thirdly, the emotions and passions of the mind. 

* Orat. ad Quirites, post Reditum. 



LECT. XIII.] HARMONY OF SENTENCES. 147 

First, I say, by a proper choice of words, we may produce a 
resemblance of other sounds which we mean to describe ; such 
as, the noise of waters, the roaring of winds, or the murmuring 
of streams. This is the simplest instance of this sort of beauty. 
For the medium through which we imitate, here, is a natural 
one ; sounds represented by other sounds ; and between ideas of 
the same sense, it is easy to form a connexion. No very great 
art is required in a poet, when he is describing sweet and soft 
sounds, to make use of such words as have most liquids and 
vowels, and glide the softest ; or, when he is describing harsh 
sounds, to throw together a number of harsh syllables which are 
of difficult pronunciation. Here the common structure of lan- 
guage assists him ; for, it will be found, that in most languages, 
the names of many particular sounds are so formed, as to carry 
some affinity to the sound which they signify ; as with us, the 
whistling of winds, the buz and hum of insects, the hiss of serpents, 
the crash of falling timber, and many other instances, where the 
word has been plainly framed upon the sound it represents. I 
shall produce a remarkable example of this beauty from Milton, 
taken from two passages in Paradise Lost, describing the sound 
made, in the one, by the opening of the gates of Hell ; in the 
other, by the opening of those of Heaven. The contrast between 
the two, displays to great advantage, the poet's art. The first 
is the opening of Hell's gates : 

On a sudden, open fly, 
' With impetuous recoil, and jarring sound, 
Th' infernal doors j and on their hinges grate 
Harsh thunder. B. i. 

Observe, now, the smoothness of the other : 

Heaven opened wide 
Her ever-during gates, harmonious sound, 
On golden hinges turning. B. ii. 

The following beautiful passage from Tasso's Gierusalemme, has 
been often admired, on account of the imitation effected by sound 
of the thing represented : 

Chiama gli hahitator de l'ombre eterne 

II rauco suon de la Tartarea tromba : 

Treman le spaciose atre caverne, 

Et l'aer cieco a quel rumor rimbomba ; 

Ni stridendo cosi de la superne 

Regioni dele cielo, il folgor piomba j 

Ne si scossa giammai la terra, 

Quand i vapori in sen gravida serra. Cant. IV. Stanz. 4. 

The second class of objects, which the sound of words is often 
employed to imitate, is, Motion ; as it is swift or slow, violent or 
gentle, equable or interrupted, easy or accompanied with effort. 
Though there be no natural affinity between sound of any kind, 
and motion, yet, in the imagination there is a strong one ; as 



148 HARMONY OF SENTENCES. [LECT. XIII. 

appears from the connexion between music and dancing. And 
therefore, here it is in the poet's power to give us a lively idea 
of the kind of motion he would describe, by means of sounds 
which correspond, in our imagination, with that motion. Long 
syllables naturally give the impression of slow emotion ; as in 
this line of Virgil : 

Olli inter sese magna vi brachia tollunt. 

A succession of short syllables presents quick motion to the 
mind ; as, 

Quadrupedante putrem sonitu quatit ungula campum. 



Both Homer and Virgil are great masters of this beauty, and 
their works abound with instances of it : most of them, indeed, 
so often quoted and so well known, that it is needless to produce 
them. I shall give one instance, in English, which seems happy. 
It is the description of a sudden calm on the seas, in a Poem 
entitled, The Fleece, 

With easy course 
The vessels glide ; unless their speed be stopped 
By dead calms, that oft lie on these smooth seas 
When every zephyr sleeps ; then the shrouds drop ; 
The downy feather on the cordage hung 
Moves not ; the flat sea shines like yellow gold 
Fused in the fire, or like the marble floor 
Of some old temple wide. 

The third set of objects, which I mentioned the sound of 
words as capable of representing, consists of the passions and 
emotions of the mind. Sound may, at first view, appear foreign 
to these ; but, that here, also, there is some sort of connexion, is 
sufficiently proved by the power which music has to awaken, or 
to assist certain passions, and, according as its strain is varied, to 
introduce one train of ideas, rather than another. This indeed, 
logically speaking, cannot be called a resemblance between the 
sense and the sound, seeing long or short syllables have no 
natural resemblance to any thought or passion. But if the 
arrangement of syllables, by their sound alone, recall one set of 
ideas more readily than another, and dispose the mind for enter- 
ing into that affection which the poet means to raise, such 
arrangement may, justly enough, be said to resemble the sense, 
or be similar and correspondent to it. I admit, that, in many 
instances, which are supposed to display this beauty of accom- 
modation of sound to the sense, there is much room for imagina- 
tion to work ; and, according as a reader is struck by a passage, 
he will often fancy a resemblance between the sound and the 
sense, which others cannot discover. He modulates the num- 
bers to his own disposition of mind ; and, in effect, makes the 
music which he imagines himself to hear. However, that there 
are real instances of this kind, and that poetry is capable of some 






LECT. XIV.] FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 149 

such expression, cannot be doubted. Dryden's Ode on St. 
Cecilia's Day, affords a very beautiful exemplification of it, in 
the English language. Without much study or reflection, a 
poet describing pleasure, joy, and agreeable objects, from the 
feeling of his subject, naturally runs into smooth, liquid, and 
flowing numbers : 

Namque ipsa decoram 
Caesariem nato genitrix, lumenque juventae 
Purpureum, et laetos oculis afflarat honores. 2Evi. I. 

Or, 

Deven&re locos laetos et amcena vireta, 

Fortunatorum nemorum, sedesque beatas ; 

Largior hie campos gather, et lumine vestit 

Purpureo, solemque suum, sua sidera norunt. JEn. VI. 

Brisk and lively sensations exact quicker and more animated 
numbers : 

Juvenum manus emicat ardens 
Littus in Hesperium. Mn. VII. 

Melancholy and gloomy subjects naturally express themselves in 
slow measures and long words : 

In those deep solitudes and awful cells, 
Where heavenly pensive contemplation dwells. 

Et caligantem nigra formidine lucum. 

I have now given sufficient openings into this subject : a 
moderate acquaintance with the good poets, either ancient or 
modern, will suggest many instances of the same kind. And 
with this, I finish the discussion of the Structure of Sentences; 
having fully considered them under all the heads I mentioned ; 
of Perspicuity, Unity, Strength, and Musical Arrangement. 



LECTUKE XIV. 



ORIGIN AND NATURE OF FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 



Having now finished what related to the construction of 

sentences, I proceed to other rules concerning Style. My 

general division of the qualities of Style, was into Perspicuity 

: and Ornament. Perspicuity, both in single words and in Sen- 

1 tences, I have considered. Ornament, as far as it arises from a 

graceful, strong, or melodious construction of words, has also 



150 ORIGIN AND NATURE OF [LECT. XIV. 

been treated of. Another, and a great branch of the ornament 
of Style, is, Figurative Language ; which is now to be the 
subject of our consideration, and will require a full discussion. 

Our first inquiry must be, what is meant by Figures of 
Speech?* 

In general, they always imply some departure from simplicity 
of expression ; the . idea which we intend to convey, not only 
enunciated to others, but enunciated in a particular manner, and 
with some circumstance added which is designed to render the 
impression more strong and vivid. When I say, for instance, 
" That a good man enjoys comfort in the midst of adversity ; " I 
just express my thought in the simplest manner possible. But 
when I say, " To the upright there ariseth light in darkness ; " 
the same sentiment is expressed in a Figurative Style ; a new 
circumstance is introduced ; light is put in the place of comfort, 
and darkness is used to suggest the idea of adversity. In the 
same manner to say, " It is impossible by any search we can 
make, to explore the divine nature fully," is to make a simple 
proposition. But when we say, " Canst thou, by searching, find 
out God ? Canst thou find out the Almighty to perfection ? It 
is high as Heaven, what canst thou do ? deeper than Hell, what 
canst thou know ? " This introduces a Figure into Style ; the 
proposition being not only expressed, but admiration and asto- 
nishment being expressed together with it. 

But, though Figures imply a deviation from what may be 
reckoned the most simple form of Speech, we are not thence to 
conclude, that they imply tiny thing uncommon or unnatural. 
This is so far from being the case, that on very many occasions, 
they are both the most natural, and the most common method of 
uttering our sentiments. It is impossible to compose any dis- 
course without using them often ; nay, there are few sentences 
of any length, in which some expression or other, that may be 
termed a Figure, does not occur. From what causes this hap- 
pens, shall be afterwards explained. The fact, in the mean 
time, shows that they are to be accounted part of that Language 
which nature dictates to men. They are not the inventions of 
the schools, nor the mere product of study : on the contrary, the 
most illiterate speak in Figures, as often as the most learned. 
Whenever the imaginations of the vulgar are much awakened, or 
their passions inflamed against one another, they will pour forth 
a torrent of Figurative Language, as forcibly as could be em- 
ployed by the most artificial declaimer. 

What then is it, which has drawn the attention of critics and 

* On the subject of Figures of Speech, all the writers who treat of rhetoric or compo- 
sition, have insisted largely. To make references, therefore, on this subject, were end- 
less. On the foundations of Figurative Language, in general one of the most sensible 
and instructive writers appears to me to be M. Marsais, in his Traite des Tropes pour 
servir d' Introduction a la Rhetorique, el a la Logique. For observations on particular 
Figures, the Elements of Criticism may be consulted, where the subject is fully handled, 
and illustrated by a great variety of examples. 



LECT. XIV.] FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 151 

rhetoricians so much to these forms of Speech ? It is this : they 
remarked, that in them consists much of the beauty and the force 
of Language ; and found them always to bear some characters, 
or distinguishing marks, by the help of which they could reduce 
them under separate classes and heads. To this, perhaps, they 
owe their name of Figures. As the figure or shape of one body 
distinguishes it from another, so these forms of Speech have, 
each of them, a cast or turn peculiar to itself, which both dis- 
tinguishes it from the rest, and distinguishes it from Simple 
Expression. Simple expression just makes our idea known to 
others ; but Figurative Language, over and above, bestows a 
particular dress upon that idea ; a dress which both makes it to 
be remarked, and adorns it. Hence, this sort of Language 
became early a capital object of attention to those who studied 
the powers of Speech. 

Figures, in general, may be described to be that Language, 
which is prompted either by the imagination, or by the passions. 
The justness of this description will appear, from the more par- 
ticular account I am afterwards to give of them. Rhetoricians 
commonly divide them into two great classes ; Figures of Words, 
and Figures of Thought. The former, Figures of Words, are 
commonly called Tropes, and consist in a word's being employed 
to signify something that is different from its original and primi- 
tive meaning ; so that if you alter the word, you destroy the 
Figure. Thus, in the instance I gave before ; " Light ariseth 
to the upright in darkness." The Trope consists in " light and 
darkness," being not meant literally, but substituted for comfort 
and adversity, on account of some resemblance or analogy which 
they are supposed to bear to these conditions of life. The other 
class, termed Figures of Thought, supposes the words to be used 
in their proper and literal meaning, and the Figure to consist of 
the turn of the thought ; as is the case in exclamations, interro- 
gations, apostrophes, and comparisons ; where, though you vary 
the words that are used, or translate them from one Language 
into another, you may, nevertheless, still preserve the same 
Figure in the thought. This distinction, however, is of no great 
use ; as nothing can be built upon it in practice ; neither is it 
always very clear. It is of little importance, whether we give to 
some particular mode of expression the name of a Trope, or of 
a Figure; provided we remember, that Figurative Language 
always imports some colouring of the imagination, or some emo- 
tion of passion, expressed in our Style : And, perhaps, Figures 
of Imagination, and Figures of Passion, might be a more useful 
distribution of the subject. But, without insisting on any arti- 
ficial divisions, it will be more useful, that I inquire into the 
Origin and the nature of Figures. Only, before I proceed to 
this, there are two general observations which it may be proper 
to premise. 

The first is, concerning the use of rules with respect to Figu- 



152 ORIGIN AND NATURE OF [LECT, XIV. 

rative Language ; I admit, that persons may both speak and 
write with propriety who know not the names of any of the 
Figures of Speech, nor ever studied any rules relating to them. 
Nature, as was before observed, dictates the use of Figures ; and 
like Mons. Jourdain, in Moliere, who had spoken for forty years 
in prose, without ever knowing it, many a one uses metaphorical 
expressions for good purpose, without any idea of what a meta- 
phor is. It will not, however, follow thence, that rules are of 
no service. All science arises from observations on practice. 
Practice has always gone before method and rule ; but method 
and rule have afterwards improved and perfected practice, in 
every art. We .every day meet with persons who sing agreeably, 
without knowing one note of the gamut. Yet it has been found 
of importance to reduce these notes to a scale, and to form an 
art of music ; and it would be ridiculous to pretend, that the art 
is of no advantage, because the practice is founded in nature. 
Propriety and beauty of speech are certainly as improveable as 
the ear or the voice ; and to know the principles of this beauty, 
or the reasons which render one Figure, or one manner of 
Speech, preferable to another, cannot fail to assist and direct a 
proper choice. 

But I must observe, in the next place, that, although this part 
of style merits attention, and is a very proper object of science 
and rule ; although much of the beauty of composition depends 
on Figurative Language ; yet we must beware of imagining that 
it depends solely, or even chiefly upon such Language. It is 
not so. The great place which the doctrine of Tropes and Fi- 
gures has occupied in systems of rhetoric ; the over-anxious care 
which has been shown in giving names to a vast variety of them, 
and in ranging them under different classes, has often led persons 
to imagine, that if their composition was well bespangled with a 
number of these ornaments of Speech, it wanted no other beauty ; 
whence has arisen much stiffness and affectation. For it is, in 
truth, the sentiment or passion, which lies under the figured 
expression, that gives it any merit. The Figure is only the 
dress ; the Sentiment is the body and the substance. No figures 
will render a cold or an empty composition interesting ; whereas, 
if a sentiment be sublime or pathetic, it can support itself per- 
fectly well without any borrowed assistance. Hence, several of 
the most affecting and admired passages of the best authors, are 
expressed in the simplest language. The following sentiment 
from Virgil, for instance, makes its way at once to the heart, 
without the help of any Figure whatever. He is describing an 
Argive, who falls in battle, in Italy, at a great distance from his 
native country. 

Sternitur, infelix, alieno vulnere, ccelumque 

Aspicit, et dulces moriens reminiscitur Argos.* JEs. X. 781. 

* "Anthares had from Argos travelled far, 
Alcides' friend, and brother of the war ; 



LECT. XIV.] FIGUKATIVE LANGUAGE. 153 

A single stroke of this kind, drawn as by the very pencil of 
Nature, is worth a thousand Figures. In the same manner, the 
simple style of Scripture : " He spoke, and it was done ; he 
commanded, and it stood fast." — " God said, Let there be light ; 
and there was light ; " imparts a lofty conception to much greater 
advantage, than if it , had been decorated by the most pompous 
metaphors. The fact is, that the strong pathetic, and the pure 
sublime, not only have little dependence on figures of Speech, 
but generally reject them. The proper region of these orna- 
ments is, where a moderate degree of elevation and passion 
is predominant ; and there they contribute to the embellishment 
of discourse, only, when there is a basis of solid thought and 
natural sentiment ; when they are inserted in their proper place ; 
and when they rise, of themselves, from the subject, without 
being sought after. 

Having premised these observations, I proceed to give an 
account of the origin and nature of Figures ; principally of such 
as have their dependence on language ; including that numerous 
tribe, which the rhetoricians call Tropes. 

At the first rise of Language, men would begin with giving 
names to the different objects which they discerned or thought 
of. This nomenclature would, at the beginning, be very narrow. 
According as men's ideas multiplied, and their acquaintance w r ith 
objects increased, their stock of names and words would increase 
also. But to the infinite variety of objects and ideas, no lan- 
guage is adequate. No language is so copious, as to have a 
separate word for every separate idea. Men naturally sought to 

Now falling, by another's wound, his eyes 

He casts to Heaven, on Argos thinks, and dies."j 

In this translation much of the beauty of the original is lost. " On Argos thinks, and 
dies," is by no means equal to ll dulces moriens reminiscitur Argos : " " As he dies, he 
remembers his beloved Argos." It is indeed observable, that in most of those tender 
and pathetic passages, which do so much honour to Virgil, that great poet expresses 
himself with the utmost simplicity j as, 

Te, dulcis Conjux, te solo in littore seeum, 

Te veniente die,*te decedente canebat. Georg. IV. 

And so in that moving prayer of Evander, upon his parting with his son Pallas : 

At vos, O Superi ! et Divuni tu maxime rector 
Jupiter, Arcadii, quaeso, miserescite regis, 
Et patrias audite preces. Si numina vestra 
Incolumem Pallanta mihi, si fata reservant, 
Si visurus eum vivo, et venturus in unum, 
Vitam oro ; patiar quemvis durare laborem ! - 
Sin aliquem infandum casum, Fortuna, minaris, 
Nunc, O nunc liceat crudelem abruinpere vitam ! 
Dum curse ambiguae, dum spes incerta futuri ; 
Dum te, chare Puer ! mea sera et sola voluptas ! 
Amplexuleneo ; gravior ne nuncius aures 

Vulneret 

^n.VIII. 575, et. seq. 
N 



154 ORIGIN AND NATURE OF [LECT. XIV. 

abridge this labour of multiplying words in infinitum ; and, in 
order to lay less burden on their memories, made one word, 
which they had already appropriated to a certain idea or object, 
stand also for some other idea or object, between which and the 
primary one, they found, or fancied some relation. Thus, the 
preposition, in, was originally invented to express the circum- 
stance of place : "The man was killed in the wood." In progress 
of time, words were wanted to express men's being connected 
with certain conditions of fortune, or certain situations of mind, 
and some resemblance, or analogy being fancied between these, 
and the place of bodies, the word in, was employed to express 
men's being so circumstanced ; as, one's being in health, or in 
sickness, in prosperity, or in adversity, in joy, or in grief, in 
doubt, or in danger, or in safety. Here we see this preposition, 
in, plainly assuming a tropical signification, or carried off from 
its original meaning, to signify something else which relates to, 
or resembles it. 

Tropes of this kind abound in all Languages ; and are plainly 
owing to the want of proper words. The operations of the 
mind and affections, in particular, are, in most languages, de- 
scribed by words taken from sensible objects. The reason is 
plain. The names of sensible objects were, in all languages, the 
words most early introduced ; and were, by degrees, extended 
to those mental objects of which men had more obscure concep- 
tions, and to which they found it more difficult to assign distinct 
names. They borrowed, therefore, the name of some sensible 
idea, where their imagination found some affinity. Thus we 
speak of a piercing judgment, and a clear head ; a soft or a hard 
heart ; a rough or a smooth behaviour. We say, inflamed by 
anger, warmed by love, swelled with pride, melted into grief; and 
these are almost the only significant words which we have for 
such ideas. 

But, although the barrenness of language, and the want of 
words, be doubtless one cause of the invention of Tropes ; yet it 
is not the only, nor perhaps, even the principal source of this 
form of speech. Tropes have arisen more frequently, and spread 
themselves wider, from the influence which Imagination pos- 
sesses over Language. The train on which this has proceeded 
among all nations, I shall endeavour to explain. 

Every object which makes any impression on the human mind, 
is constantly accompanied with certain circumstances and rela- 
tions, that strike us at the same time. It never presents itself 
to our view isole, as the French express it ; that is, independent 
on, and separated from every other thing, but always occurs as 
somehow related to other objects; going before them, or follow- 
ing them ; their effect or their cause ; resembling them, or op- 
posed to them ; distinguished by certain qualities, or surrounded 
with certain circumstances. By this means, v every idea or object 
carries in its train some other ideas which may be considered as 



LECT. XIV.] FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 155 

its accessories. These accessories often strike the imagination 
more than the principal idea itself. They are, perhaps, more 
agreeable ideas ; or they are more familiar to our conceptions ; or 
they recall to our memory a greater variety of important circum- 
stanoes. The imagination is more disposed to rest upon some of 
them ; and therefore, instead of using the proper »name of the 
principal idea which it means to express, it employs, in its 
place, the name of the accessory or correspondent idea ; although 
the principal have a proper and well-known name of its own. 
Hence, a vast variety of tropical or figurative words obtain cur- 
rency in all languages, through choice, not necessity ; and men 
of lively imaginations are every day adding to their number. 

Thus, when we design to intimate the period at which a state 
enjoyed most reputation or glory, it were easy to employ the 
proper words for expressing this ; but as this is readily con- 
nected, in our imagination, with the flourishing period of a plant 
or a tree, we lay hold of this correspondent idea, and say, 
" The Roman empire flourished most under Augustus." The 
leader of a faction is plain language ; but because the head is the 
principal part of the human body, and is supposed to direct 
all the animal operations, resting upon this resemblance, we say, 
" Catiline was the head of the party." The word Voice, was 
originally invented to signify the articulate sound, formed by the 
organs of the mouth; but as by means of it men signify their 
ideas and their intentions to each other, Voice soon assumed 
a great many other meanings, all derived from this primary 
effect. " To give our Voice" for any thing, signified, to give 
our sentiment in favour of it. Not only so; but Voice was 
transferred to signify any intimation of will or judgment, though 
given without the least interposition of Voice in its literal sense, 
or any sound uttered at all. Thus, we speak of listening to the 
Voice of Conscience, the Voice of Nature, the Voice of God. 
This usage takes place, not so much from barrenness of lan- 
guage, or want of a proper word, as from an allusion which we 
choose to make to Voice, in its primary sense, in order to convey 
our idea, connected with a circumstance which appears to the 
fancy to give it more sprightliness and force. 

The account which I have now given, and which seems to be 
a full and fair one, of the introduction of Tropes into all Lan- 
guages, coincides with what Cicero briefly hints, in his third 
book de Oratore. " Modus transferendi verba late patet ; quani 
necessitas primum genuit, coacta inopia et angustias : post autem 
delectatio, jucunditasque celebravit. Nam ut vestis, frigoris 
depellendi causa reperta primo, post adhiberi caepta est ad orna- 
tum etiam corporis et dignitatem, sic verbi translatio instituta 
est inopiae causa, frequentata, delectationis." # 

* ,l The figurative usage of words is very extensive ; an usage to which necessity 
first gave rise, on account of the paucity of words, and barrenness of Language ; but 
which the pleasure that was found in it afterwards rendered frequent. For, as garments 

n2 



156 ORIGIN AND NATURE OF [LECT. XIV. 

From what has been said it clearly appears, how that must 
come to pass, which I had occasion to mention in a former Lec- 
ture, that all Languages are most figurative in their early state. 
Both the causes to which I ascribed the origin of Figures, con- 
cur in producing this effect at the beginnings of Society. Lan- 
guage is then most barren ; the stock of proper names which 
have been invented for things, is small ; and at the same time, 
imagination exerts great influence over the conceptions of men, 
and their method of uttering them ; so that, both from necessity 
and from choice, their Speech will, at that period, abound in 
Tropes. For the savage tribes of men are always much given 
to wonder and astonishment. Every new object surprises, ter- 
rifies, and makes a strong impression on their mind ; they are 
governed by imagination and passion more than by reason ; and 
of course, their speech must be deeply tinctured by their genius. 
In fact, we find, that this is the character of the American and 
Indian Languages ; bold, picturesque, and metaphorical ; full of 
strong allusions to sensible qualities, and to such objects as 
struck them most in their wild and solitary life. An Indian 
chief makes a harangue to his tribe, in a style full of stronger 
metaphors than an European would use in an epic poem. 

As Language makes gradual progress towards refinement, 
almost every object comes to have a proper name given to it, and 
Perspicuity and Precision are most studied. But, still, for the 
reasons before given, borrowed words, or, as rhetoricians call 
them Tropes, must continue to occupy a considerable place. In 
every Language, too, there are a multitude of words, which, 
though they were figurative in their first application to certain 
objects, yet, by long use, lose that Figurative power wholly, 
and come to be considered as simple and literal expressions. In 
this case, are the terms which I remarked before, as transferred 
from sensible qualities, to the operations or qualities of the 
mind, a piercing judgment, a clear head, a hard heart, and the 
like. There are other words which remain in a sort of middle 
state ; which have neither lost wholly their Figurative applica- 
tion, nor yet retain so much of it, as to imprint any remarkable 
character of figured Language on our Style : such as these 
phrases, " apprehend one's meaning ;" " enter on a subject ;" 
" follow up an argument ;" " stir up strife ;" and a great many 
more, of which our Language is full. In the use of such 
phrases, correct writers will always preserve a regard to the 
figure or allusion on which they are founded, and will be careful 
not to apply them in any way that is inconsistent with it. One 
may be " sheltered under the patronage of a great man ;" but it 
were wrong to say, " sheltered under the masque of dissimula- 



were first contrived to defend our bodies from the cold, and afterwards were employed 
for the purpose of ornament and dignity, so figures of Speech, introduced by want, were 
cultivated for the sake of entertainment." 



LECT. XIV.] FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 157 

tion ;" as a masque conceals, but does not shelter. An object, 
in description, may be " clothed," if you will, " with epithets :" 
but it is not so proper to speak of its being " clothed with cir- 
cumstances;" as the word " circumstances" alludes to standing 
round, not to clothing. Such attentions as these, to the pro- 
priety of Language, are requisite in every composition. 

What has been said on this subject, tends to throw light on 
the nature of Language in general ; and will lead to the reasons, 
why Tropes or Figures contribute to the beauty and grace 
of Style. 

First, they enrich Language, and render it more copious. By 
their means, words and phrases are multiplied for expressing all 
sorts of ideas ; for describing even the minutest differences ; the 
nicest shades and colours of thought ; which no Language could 
possibly do by proper words alone, without assistance from 
Tropes. 

Secondly, They bestow dignity upon Style. The familiarity 
of common words, to which our ears are much accustomed, 
tends to degrade Style. When we want to adapt our Language 
to the tone of an elevated subject, we should be greatly at a 
loss, if we could not borrow assistance from Figures ; which, 
properly employed, have a similar effect on Language, with 
what is produced by the rich and splendid dress of a per- 
son of rank; to create respect, and to give an air of mag- 
nificence to him who wears it. Assistance of this kind is 
often needed in prose compositions ; but poetry could not sub- 
sist without it. Hence, Figures from the constant Language 
of poetry. To say, that " the sun rises," is trite and common ; 
but it becomes a magnificent image when expressed, as Mr. 
Thomson has done : 

But yonder comes the powerful king of day, 
Rejoicing in the east. 

To say that " all men are subject alike to death," presents only 
a vulgar idea ; but it rises and fills the imagination when painted 
thus by Horace : 



Or, 



Or, 



Pallida mors aequo pulsat pede, pauperum tabernas 
Regumque turres. 

Omnes eodem cogimur ; omnium, 
Versatur urna, serius, ocyus, 
Sors exitura, et nos in eternum 
Exilium impositura cymbas.* 

* With equal pace impartial fate 
Knocks at the palace, as the cottage gate. 

We all must tread the paths of fate ; 

And ever shakes the mortal urn, 
Whose lot embarks us, soon or late, 

On Charon's boat ; ah ! never to return. Francis. 



158 FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. [LECT. XIV. 

In the third place, Figures give us the pleasure of enjoying 
two objects presented together to our view, without confusion ; 
the principal idea, which is the subject of the discourse, along 
with its accessory, which gives it the figurative dress, We see 
one thing in another, as Aristotle expresses it ; which is always 
agreeable to the mind. For there is nothing with which the 
fancy is more delighted, than with comparisons, and resemblances 
of objects ; and all Tropes are founded upon some relation or 
analogy between one thing and another. When, for instance, in 
place of "youth," I say, the "morning of life;" the fancy is 
immediately entertained with all the resembling circumstances 
which presently occur between these two objects. At one 
moment, I have in my eye a certain period of human life, and a 
certain time of the day, so related to each other, that the 
imagination plays between them with pleasure, and contemplates 
two similar objects, in one view, without embarrassment or con- 
fusion. Not only so, but, 

In the fourth place, Figures are attended with this farther 
advantage, of giving us frequently a much clearer and more 
striking view of the principal object, than we could have if it 
were expressed in simple terms, and divested of its accessory idea. 
This is, indeed, their principal advantage, in virtue of which, 
they are very properly said to illustrate a subject, or to throw 
light upon it. For they exhibit the object, on which they are 
employed, in a picturesque form; they can render an abstract 
conception, in some degree, an object of sense ; they surround it 
with such circumstances as enable the mind to lay hold of it 
steadily, and to contemplate it fully. " Those persons," says one, 
" who gain the hearts of most people, who are chosen as the 
companions of their softer hours, and their reliefs from anxiety 
and care, are seldom persons of shining qualities, or strong 
virtues : it is rather the soft green of the soul on which we rest 
our e} r es, that are fatigued with beholding more glaring objects." 
Here, by a happy allusion to a colour, the whole conception is 
conveyed clear and strong to the mind in one word. By a well 
chosen Figure, even conviction is assisted, and the impression of 
a truth upon the mind made more lively and forcible than it 
would otherwise be. As in the following illustration of Dr. 
Young's : " When we dip too deep in pleasure, we always stir a 
sediment that renders it impure and noxious : " or in this, " A 
heart boiling with violent passions, will always send up infatu- 
ating fumes to the head." An image that presents so much 
congruity between a moral and a sensible idea, serves, like an 
argument from analogy, to enforce what the author asserts, and 
to induce belief. 

Besides, whether we are endeavouring to raise sentiments of 
pleasure or aversion, we can always heighten the emotion by the 
Figures which we introduce ; leading the imagination to a train, 
either of agreeable or disagreeable, of exalting or debasing ideas, 



LECT. XIV.] FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 159 

correspondent to the impression which we seek to make. When 
we want to render an object beautiful or magnificent, we borrow 
images from all the most beautiful or splendid scenes of nature ; 
we thereby, naturally throw a lustre over our object ; we enliven 
the reader's mind, and dispose him to go along with us, in the 
gay and pleasing impressions which we give him of the subject. 
This effect of figures is happily touched in the following lines of 
Dr. Akenside, and illustrated by a very sublime Figure : 

Then the inexpressive strain 
Diffuses its enchantment. Fancy dreams 
Of sacred fountains and Elysian groves, 
And vales of bliss ; the intellectual Power 
Bends from his awful throne a wond'ring ear, 
And smiles. Pleas, of Imaginat. I. 124. 

What I have now explained, concerning the use and effects of 
Figures, naturally leads us to reflect on the wonderful power of 
Language ; and indeed, we cannot reflect on it without the 
highest admiration. What a fine vehicle is it now become for all 
the conceptions of the human mind ; even for the most subtle 
and delicate workings of the imagination ! What a pliant and 
flexible instrument in the hand of one who can employ it skil- 
fully ; prepared to take every form which he chooses to give it ! 
Not content with a simple communication of ideas and thoughts, 
it paints those ideas to the eye ; it gives colouring and relievo, 
even to the most abstract conceptions. In the Figures which it 
uses, it sets mirrors before us, where we may behold objects, a 
second time, in their likeness. It entertains us, as with a suc- 
cession of the most splendid pictures ; disposes, in the most arti- 
ficial manner, of the light and shade, for viewing every thing to 
the best advantage; in fine, from being a rude and imperfect 
interpreter of men's wants and necessities, it has now passed into 
an instrument of the most delicate and refined luxury. 

To make these effects of Figurative Language sensible, there 
are few authors in the English Language whom I can refer to 
with more advantage than Mr. Addison, whose imagination is at 
once, remarkably rich, and remarkably correct and chaste. 
When he is treating, for instance, of the effect which light and 
colours have to entertain the fancy, considered in Mr. Locke's 
view of them as secondary qualities, which have no real exist- 
ence in matter, but are only ideas in the mind, with what beau- 
tiful painting has he adorned this philosophic speculation ! 
" Things," says he, " would make but a poor appearance to the 
eye, if we saw them only in their proper figures and motions. 
Now, we are every where entertained with pleasing shows and 
apparitions : we discover imaginary glories in the heavens, and in 
the earth, and see some of this visionary beauty poured out upon 
the whole creation. But what a rough unsightly sketch of 
Nature should we be entertained with, did all her colouring dis- 
appear, and the several distinctions of light and shade vanish ? 



160 FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. [LECT. XIV. 

In short, our souls are, at present, delightfully lost, and bewil- 
dered in a pleasing delusion, and we walk about like the 
enchanted hero of a romance, who sees beautiful castles, woods, 
and meadows ; and at the same time hears the w r arbling of birds, 
and the purling of the streams ; but upon the finishing of some 
secret spell, the fantastic scene breaks up, and the disconsolate 
knight finds himself upon a barren heath, or in a solitary desert. 
It is not improbable that something like this may be the state of 
the soul after its first separation, in respect of the images it will 
receive from matter." No. 413. Spectator. 

Having thus explained, at sufficient length, the Origin, the 
Nature, and the Effects of Tropes, I should proceed next to the 
several kinds and divisions of them. But, in treating of these, 
were I to follow the common tract of the scholastic writers on 
Rhetoric, I should soon become tedious, and, I apprehend, 
useless, at the same time. Their great business has been, with a 
most patient and frivolous industry, to branch them out under a 
vast number of divisions, according to all the several modes in 
which a word may be carried from its literal meaning, into one 
that is figurative, without doing any more ; as if the mere know- 
ledge of the names and classes of all the Tropes that can be 
formed, could be of any advantage towards the proper or 
graceful use of Language. All that I purpose is, to give, in a 
few words, before finishing this Lecture, a general view of the 
several sources whence the tropical meaning of words is derived ; 
after which I shall, in subsequent Lectures, descend to a more 
particular consideration of some of the most considerable 
Figures of Speech, and such as are in most frequent use; by 
treating of which I shall give all the instruction I can concerning 
the proper employment of Figurative Language, and point out 
the errors and abuses which are apt to be committed in this part 
of Style. 

All Tropes, as I before observed, are founded on the relation 
which one object bears to another ; in virtue of which, the name 
of the one can be substituted instead of the name of the other; 
and by such a substitution, the vivacity of the idea is commonly 
meant to be increased. These relations, some more, some less 
intimate, may all give rise to Tropes. One of the first and most 
obvious relations is, that between a cause and its effect. Hence, 
in Figurative Language, the cause is sometimes put for the 
effect. Thus, Mr, Addison, writing of Italy : 

Blossoms and fruits, and flowers, together rise, 
And the whole year in gay confusion lies : 

where the "whole year" is plainly intended to signify the effects 
or productions of all the seasons of the year. At other times, 
again, the effect is put for the cause; as "grey hairs" frequently 
for old age, which causes grey hairs ; and " shade," for trees that 



LECT. XIV.] FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 161 

produce the shade. The relation between the container and the 
thing contained, is also so intimate and obvious, as naturally to 
give rise to Tropes : 

Me impiger hausit 
Spumantem pateram et pleno se proluit auro. 

Where every one sees, that the cup and the gold are put for the 
liquor that was contained in the golden cup. In the same 
manner, the name of any country is often used to denote the 
inhabitants of that country; and Heaven, very commonly em- 
ployed to signify God, because he is conceived as dwelling in 
Heaven. To implore the assistance of Heaven is the same as to 
implore the assistance of God. The relation betwixt any esta- 
blished sign and the thing signified, is a further source of Tropes. 
Hence, 

Cedant arma togae ; concedat laurea linguae. 

The " toga " being the badge of the civil professions, and the 
" laurel," of military honours, the badge of each is put for the 
civil and military characters themselves. To " assume the 
sceptre," is a common phrase for entering on royal authority. 
To Tropes, founded on these several relations, of cause and 
effect, container and contained, sign and thing signified, is given 
the name of Metonymy. 

When the Trope is founded on the relation between an ante- 
cedent and a consequent, or what goes before and immediately 
follows, it is then called a Metalepsis ; as in the Roman phrase 
of " Fuit," or " Yixit," to express that one was dead. " Fuit 
Ilium et ingens gloria Dardanidum," signifies that the glory of 
Troy is now no more. 

When the whole is put for a part, or a part for the whole ; a 
genus for a species, or a species for a genus ; the singular for the 
plural, or the plural for the singular number ; in general, when 
any thing less or any thing more, is put for the precise object 
meant ; the figure is then called a Synecdoche. It is very 
common, for instance, to describe a whole object by some re- 
markable part of it : as, when we say, " a fleet of so many sail," 
in the place of "ships;" when we use the "head" for the 
"person," the "pole" for the "earth," the "waves" for the "sea." 
In like manner an attribute may be put for a subject ; as, " Youth 
and Beauty," for " the young and beautiful ;" and sometimes a 
subject for its attribute. But it is needless to insist longer on 
this enumeration, which serves little purpose. I have said 
enough to give an opening into that great variety of relations 
between objects, by means of which the mind is assisted to pass 
easily from one to another ; and by the name of the one under- 
stands the other to be meant. It is always some accessory idea, 
which recalls the principal to the imagination ; and commonly 
recalls it with more force, than if the principal idea had been 
expressed. 



162 METAPHOR. [LECT. XV. 

The relation which is far the most fruitful of Tropes, I have 
not yet mentioned ; that is the relation of Similitude and Resem- 
blance. On this is founded what is called the Metaphor : when, 
in place of using the proper name of any object, we employ in 
its place the name of some other which is like it ; which is a 
sort of picture of it, and which thereby awakens the conception 
of it, with more force or grace. This Figure is more frequent 
than all the rest put together ; and the language, both of prose 
and verse, owes to it much of its elegance and grace. This, 
therefore, deserves very full and particular consideration; and 
shall be the subject of the next lecture. 



LECTURE XV. 

METAPHOE. 

After the preliminary observations I have made relating to 
Figurative Language in general, I come now to treat separately 
of such Figures of Speech as occur most frequently, and require 
particular attention: and I begin with Metaphor. This is a 
figure founded entirely on the resemblance which one object 
bears to another. Hence it is much allied to Simile, or Com- 
parison ; and is, indeed, no other than a comparison, expressed 
in an abridged form. When I say of some great minister, " that 
he upholds the state, like a Pillar which supports the weight of a 
whole edifice," I fairly make a comparison ; but when I say of 
such a minister, " he is the Pillar of the state," it is now become 
a Metaphor. The comparison betwixt the Minister and a Pillar 
is made in the mind ; but is expressed without any of the words 
that denote comparison. The comparison is only insinuated, not 
expressed: the one object is supposed to be so - like the other, 
that, without formally drawing the comparison, the name of the 
one may be put in the place of the name of the other. " The 
minister is the Pillar of the state." This, therefore, is a more 
lively and animated manner of expressing the resemblances 
which imagination traces among objects. There is nothing which 
delights the fancy more than this act of comparing . things to- 
gether, discovering resemblances between them, and describing 
them by their likeness. The mind thus employed, is exercised 
without being fatigued, and is gratified with the consciousness of 
its own ingenuity. We need not be surprised, therefore, at 
finding all language tinctured strongly with Metaphor. It in- 
sinuates itself even into familiar conversation ; and, unsought, 
rises up of its own accord in the mind. The very words which 
I have casually employed in describing this, are a proof of what 



LECT. XV.] METAPHOE. 163 

I say ; tinctured, insinuates, rises up, are all of them metaphorical 
expressions, borrowed from some resemblance which fancy forms 
between sensible objects and the internal operations of the mind; 
and yet the terms are no less clear, and perhaps more expressive, 
than if words had been nsed, which were to be taken in the strict 
and literal sense. 

Though all metaphor imports comparison, and, therefore, is, in 
that respect, a Figure of thought ; yet, as the words in a Meta- 
phor are not taken literally, but changed from their proper to a 
Figurative sense, the Metaphor is commonly ranked among 
Tropes or Figures of words. But, provided the nature of it be 
well understood, it signifies very little whether we call it a 
Figure or a Trope. I have confined it to the expression of 
resemblance between two objects. I must remark, how r ever, that 
the word Metaphor is sometimes used in a looser and more ex- 
tended sense; for the application of a term in any figurative 
signification, whether the figure be founded on resemblance, or 
on some other relation which two objects bear to one another. 
For instance : when grey hairs are put for old age, as, " to bring 
one's grey hairs with sorrow to the grave ; " some writers would 
call this a Metaphor, though it is not properly one, but what 
rhetoricians call a Metonymy ; that is, the effect put for the 
cause ; " grey hairs " being the effect of old age, but not bearing 
any sort of resemblance to it. Aristotle, in his Poetics, uses 
Metaphor in this extended sense, for any figurative meaning 
imposed upon a word ; as a whole put for the part, or a part for 
the whole ; a species for the genus, or a genus for the species. 
But it would be unjust to tax this most acute writer with any 
inaccuracy on this account ; the minute subdivisions, and various 
names of Tropes, being unknown in his days, and the invention 
of later rhetoricians. Now, however, when these divisions are 
established, it is inaccurate to call every figurative use of terms 
promiscuously a Metaphor. 

Of all the Figures of Speech, none comes so near to painting 
as Metaphor. Its peculiar effect is to give light and strength to 
description; to make intellectual ideas, in some sort, visible to 
the eye, by giving them colour, and substance, and sensible 
qualities. In order to produce this effect, however, a delicate 
hand is required; for by a very little inaccuracy, we are in 
hazard of introducing confusion, in place of promoting perspicuity. 
Several rules, therefore, are necessary to be given for the proper 
management of Metaphor. But, before entering on these, I 
shall give one instance of a very beautiful Metaphor, that I may 
show the Figure to full advantage. I shall take my instance 
from Lord Bolingbroke's Remarks on the History of England. 
Just at the conclusion of his work, he is speaking of the behaviour 
of Charles I. to his last parliament : "In a word," says he, "about 
a month after their meeting, he dissolved them ; and, as soon as 
he had dissolved them he repented ; but he repented too late of 



164 METAPHOR. [LECT. XV. 

his rashness. Well might he repent, for the vessel was now 
full, and this last drop made the waters of bitterness overflow." 
" Here," he adds, " we draw the curtain, and put an end to our 
remarks." Nothing could be more happily thrown off. The 
Metaphor, we see, is continued through several expressions. 
The vessel is put for the state or temper of nation already full, 
that is, provoked to the highest by former oppressions and 
wrongs ; this last drop, stands for the provocation recently re- 
ceived by the abrupt dissolution of the parliament ; and the over- 
flowing of the waters of bitterness, beautifully expresses all the 
effects of resentment let loose by an exasperated people. 

On this passage, we may make two remarks in passing : the 
one, that nothing forms a more spirited and dignified conclusion 
of a subject, than a Figure of this kind happily placed at the 
close. We see the effect of it in this instance. The author goes 
off with a good grace ; and leaves a strong and full impression 
of his subject on the reader's mind. My other remark is, the 
advantage which a Metaphor frequently has above a formal com- 
parison. How much would the sentiment here have been en- 
feebled, if it had been expressed in the style of a regular simile, 
thus : " Well might he repent ; for the state of the nation, loaded 
with grievances and provocation, resembled a vessel that was now 
full, and this superadded provocation, like the last drop infused, 
made their rage and sentiment, as waters of bitterness, overflow." 
It has infinitely more spirit and force as it now stands, in the 
form of a Metaphor. "Well might he repent; for the vessel 
was now full; and this last drop made the waters of bitterness 
overflow." 

Having mentioned, with applause, this instance from Lord 
Bolingbroke, I think it incumbent on me here to take notice, 
that though I may have recourse to this author, sometimes, for 
examples of style, it is his style only, and not his sentiments, 
that deserve praise. It is, indeed, my opinion, that there are 
few writings in the English language, which, for the matter 
contained in them, can be read with less profit or fruit than 
Lord Bolingbroke's works. His Political Writings have the 
merit of a very lively and eloquent style ; but they have no 
other ; being, as to the substance, the mere temporary produc- 
tions of faction and party ; no better, indeed, than pamphlets 
written for the day. His Posthumous, or, as they are called, his 
Philosophical Works, wherein he attacks religion, have still less 
merit ; for they are as loose in the style as they are flimsy in the 
reasoning. An unhappy instance, this author is, of parts and 
genius so miserably perverted by faction and passion, that as his 
memory will descend to posterity with little honour, so his pro- 
ductions will soon pass, and are, indeed, already passing into 
neglect and oblivion. 

Returning from this digression to the subject before us, I pro- 
ceed to lay down the rules to be observed in the conduct 



LECT. XV.] METAPHOK. 165 

of Metaphors; and which are much the same for Tropes of 
every kind. 

The first which I shall mention, is, that they be suited to the 
nature of the subject of which we treat : neither too many, nor 
too gay ; nor too elevated for it ; that we neither attempt to 
force the subject, by means of them, into a degree of elevation 
which is not congruous to it ; nor, on the other hand, allow it to 
sink below its proper dignity. This is a direction which belongs 
to all Figurative Language, and should be ever kept in view. 
Some Metaphors are allowable, nay, beautiful in poetry, which 
it would be absurd and unnatural to employ in prose ; some 
may be graceful in orations, which would be very improper 
in historical or philosophical composition. We must remember 
that Figures are the dress of our sentiments. As there is a 
natural congruity between dress and the character or rank of 
the person who wears it, a violation of which congruity never 
fails to hurt ; the same holds precisely as to the application of 
Figures to sentiment. The excessive or unseasonable employ- 
ment of them is mere foppery in writing. It gives a boyish air 
to composition; and instead of raising a subject, in fact, dimi- 
nishes its dignity." For, as in life, true dignity must be founded 
on character, not on dress and appearance, so the dignity of 
composition must arise from sentiment and thought, not from 
ornament. The affectation and parade of ornament, detract 
as much from an author, as they do from a man. Figures 
and Metaphors, therefore, should, on no occasion, be stuck on 
too profusely ; and never should be such as refuse to accord 
with the strain of our sentiment. Nothing can be more un- 
natural, than for a writer to carry on a strain of reasoning, 
in the same sort of Figurative Language which he would use in 
description. When he reasons, we look only for perspicuity ; 
when he describes, we expect embellishment; when he divides, 
or relates, we desire plainness and simplicity. One of the 
greatest secrets in composition is, to know when to be simple. 
This always give a heightening to ornament, in its proper 
place. The right disposition of the shade makes the light 
and colouring strike the more : " Is enim est eloquens," says 
Cicero, " qui et humilia subtiliter, et magna graviter, et me- 
diocria temperate, potest dicere. — Nam qui nihil potest tran- 
quille, nihil leniter, nihil definite, distincte, potest dicere, is, 
cum non praeparatis auribus inflammare rem caepit, furere apud 
sanos, et quasi inter sobrios bacchari temulentus videtur."* 
This admonition should be particularly attended to by young 

* " He is truly eloquent who can discourse of humble subjects in a plain style, who 
can treat important ones with dignity, and speak of things which are of a middle 
nature, in a temperate strain. For one who, upon no occasion, can express himself in a 
calm, orderly, distinct manner, when he begins to be on fire before his readers are pre- 
pared to kindle along with him, has the appearance of raving like a madman among 
persons who are in their senses, or of reeling like a drunkard, in the midst of 
sober company." 



166 METAPHOR. [LECT. XV. 

practitioners in the art of writing, who are apt to be carried 
away by an un distinguishing admiration of what is showy and 
florid, whether in its place or not.* 

The second rule which I give, respects the choice of ob- 
jects from whence Metaphors, and other Figures, are to be 
drawn. The field for Figurative Language is very wide. All 
nature, to speak in the style of Figures, opens its stores to 
us, and admits us to gather, from all sensible objects, what- 
ever can illustrate intellectual or moral ideas. Not only the 
gay and splendid objects of sense, but the grave, the terrify- 
ing, and even the gloomy and dismal, may, on different occa- 
sions, be introduced into Figures with propriety. But we 
must beware of ever using such allusions as raise in the mind 
disagreeable, mean, vulgar, or dirty ideas. Even when Meta- 
phors are chosen in order to vilify and degrade any object, 
an author should study never to be nauseous in his allusions. 
Cicero blames an orator of his time, for terming his enemy 
" Stercus Curias ;" " quamvis sit simile," says he, " tamen est 
deformis cogitatio similitudinis." But, in subjects of dignity 
it is an unpardonable fault to introduce mean and vulgar 
Metaphors. In the treatise on the Art of Sinking, in Dean 
Swift's works, there is a full and humorous collection of in- 
stances of this kind, wherein authors, instead of exalting, have 
contrived to degrade their subjects by the Figures they em- 
ployed. Authors of greater note than those which are there 
quoted, have at times fallen into this error. Archbishop \ Til- 
lotson, for instance, is sometimes negligent in his choice of 
Metaphors; as, when speaking of the Day of Judgment, he 
describes the world, as " cracking about the sinners' ears." 
Shakespeare, whose imagination was rich and bold, in a much 
greater degree than it was delicate, often fails here. The 
following, for example, is a gross transgression ; in his Henry 
V., having mentioned a dunghill, he presently raises a Me- 
taphor from the steam of it; and on a subject too, that 
naturally led to much nobler ideas : 

And those that leave their valiant hones in France, 
Dying like men, though buried in your dunghills, 
They shall be famed ; for there the sun shall greet them, 
And draw their honours reeking up to heaven. 

Act. iv. Sc. 8. 

* What person of the least taste can bear the following passage in a late his- 
torian ? He is giving an account of the famous act of parliament against irregular 
Marriages in England : " The bill," says he, " underwent a great number of alterations 
and amendments, which were not effected without violent contest." This is plain 
language suited to the subject ; and we naturally expect that he should go on in 
the same strain to tell us, that after those contests, it was carried by a great majority of 
voices, and obtained the royal assent. But how does he express himself in finishing 
the period? " At length, however, it was floated through both houses on the tide of a 
great majority, and steered into the safe harbour of royal approbation." Nothing can 
be more puerile than such Language. Smollet's History of England, as quoted in 
Critical Review for Oct. 1761, p. 251. 



LECT. XV.] METAPHOK. 167 

In the third place, as Metaphors should be drawn from 
objects of some dignity, so particular care should be taken 
that the resemblance, which is the foundation of the Metaphor, 
be clear and perspicuous, not far-fetched, nor difficult to dis- 
cover. The transgression of this rule makes, what are called 
harsh or forced Metaphors, which are always displeasing, be- 
cause they puzzle the reader, and instead of illustrating the 
thought, render it perplexed and intricate. With Metaphors of 
this kind Cowley abounds. He, and some of the writers of his 
age, seemed to have considered it as the perfection of wit, to hit 
upon likenesses between objects which no other person could 
have discovered; and, at the same time, to pursue those Meta- 
phors so far, that it requires some ingenuity to follow them out, 
and comprehend them. This makes a Metaphor resemble an 
enigma ; and is the very reverse of Cicero's rule on this head : 
" Yerecunda debet esse, translatio ; ut deducta esse in alienum 
locum non irruisse, atque ut voluntario non vi venisse videatur."* 
How forced and obscure, for instance, are the following verses 
of Cowley, speaking of his mistress : 

Wo to her stubborn heart, if once mine come 
Into the self-same room, 
'Twill tear and blow up all within, 
Like a granada shot into a magazine. 
Then shall love keep the ashes and torn parts 
Of both our broken hearts ; 
Shall out of both one new one make ; 
From her's the alloy, from mine the metal take ; 
Tor of her heart, he from the flames will find 
But little left behind : 
Mine only will remain entire, 
No dross was there to perish in the fire. ' 

In this manner he addresses Sleep : 

In vain, thou drowsy God, I thee invoke, 
For thou who dost from fumes arise, 
Thou who man's soul dost overshade 
With a thick cloud by vapours made ; 
Canst have no power to shut his eyes, 
Whose flame's so pure, that it sends up no smoke : 
Yet how do tears but from some vapours rise, 
Tears that bewinter all my year ; 
The fate of Egypt I sustain, 

And never feel the dew of rain. •» 

From clouds which in the head appear : 
But all my too much moisture owe 
To overflowings of the heart below.* 



* " Every Metaphor should be modest, so that it may carry the appearance of having 
been led, not of having forced itself, into the place of that word whose room it occupies ; 
that it may seem to have come thither of its own accord, and not by constraint." 

De Oratore, lib. iii. c. 53. 

t See an excellent criticism on this sort of metaphysical poetry, in Dr. Johnson's 
Life of Cowley. 



168 METAPHOR. [LECT. XV. 

Trite and common resemblances should indeed be avoided in our 
Metaphors. To be new, and not vulgar, is a beauty. But when 
they are fetched from some likeness too remote, and lying too 
far out of the road of ordinary thought, then, besides their 
obscurity they have also the disadvantage of appearing laboured, 
and, as the French call it, " recherche :" whereas Metaphor, 
like every other ornament, loses its whole grace, when it does 
not seem natural and easy. 

It is but a bad and ungraceful softening, which writers some- 
times use for a harsh Metaphor, when they palliate it with the 
expression, as it were. This is but an awkward parenthesis ; and 
Metaphors, which need this apology of an as it were, would 
generally, have been better omitted. Metaphors, too, borrowed 
from any of the sciences, especially such of them as belong to 
particular professions, are almost always faulty by their ob- 
scurity. 

In the fourth place, it must be carefully attended to, in the 
conduct of Metaphors, never to jumble metaphorical and plain 
language together ; never to construct a period so, that part of 
it must be understood metaphorically, part literally : which 
always produces a most disagreeable confusion. Instances, which 
are but too frequent, even in good authors, will make this rule, 
and the reason of it, be clearly understood. In Mr. Pope's 
translation of the Odyssey, Penelope, bewailing the abrupt 
departure of her son Telemachus, is made to speak thus : 

Long to my joys my dearest Lord is lost, 
His country's buckler, and the Grecian boast ; 
Now from my fond embrace by tempests torn, 
Our other column of the state is borne, 
Nor took a kind adieu, nor sought consent.* 

Here, in one line, her son is figured as a Column, and in the 
next, he returns to be a Person, to whom it belongs to take 
adieu, and to ask consent. This is inconsistent. The Poet 
should have either kept himself to the idea of Man, in the literal 
sense ; or if he figured him by a Column, he should have 
ascribed nothing to him but what belonged to it. He was not at 
liberty to ascribe to that column the actions and properties of a 
Man. Such unnatural mixtures render the image indistinct; 
leaving it to waver, in our conception, between the figurative 
and the literal sense. Horace's rule, which he applies to Cha- 
racters, should be observed by all writers who deal in Figures ; 

Servetur ad imum, 
Qualis ab incepto processerit, et sibi constet. 

• In the original, there is no allusion to a Column, and the metaphor is regularly 
supported ! 

'H irgiv fA,sv worn Icr&Xov aitciifj.ta-a. ^vfxcikiovret 

n«VTo»«f agervffi XEKctiTfxevov Iv Actvaoici 

'EoSKov, rol xXhoj Ivfv naB' 'EXXa&a nai (/.troy 'Agyog' 

Nuv £' av ira.iV ayannrov avtigeiipavTO SveXXcu 

'AxXfa ex piye-iw oW tyfxtiQsvros uxovo-a. A. 724. 



LECT. XV.] METAPHOE. 169 

Mr. Pope, elsewhere, addressing himself to the King, says. 

To thee the world its present homage pays, 
The harvest early, but mature the praise. 

This, though not so gross, is a fault, however, of the same kind. 
It is plain, that had not the rhyme misled him to the choice of 
an improper phrase, he would have said, 

The harvest early, but mature the crop : 

And so would have continued the Figure which he had begun. 
Whereas, by dropping it unfinished, and by employing the literal 
word, praise, when we were expecting something that related to 
the harvest, the Figure is broken, and the two members of the 
sentence have no proper correspondence with each other : 

The Harvest early, but mature the Praise. 

The Works of Ossian abound with beautiful and correct 
Metaphors : such as that on a Hero : " In peace, thou art the 
Gale of Spring : in war, the Mountain Storm." Or this, on a 
Woman : " She was covered with the Light of Beauty ; but her 
heart was the House of Pride." They afford, however, one 
instance of the fault we are now censuring : " Trothal went 
forth with the Stream of his people, but they met a Rock : for 
Fingal stood unmoved ; broken they rolled back from his side : 
nor did they roll in safety ; the spear of the King pursued their 
flight." At the beginning, the Metaphor is very beautiful. 
The Stream, the unmoved Rock, the Waves rolling back broken, 
are expressions employed in the proper and consistent Language 
of Figure ; but in the end, when we are told, " they did not roll 
in safety, because the spear of the King pursued their flight," the 
literal meaning is improperly mixed with the Metaphor ; they 
are, at one and the same time, presented to us as waves that roll, 
and men that may be pursued and wounded with a spear. If it 
be faulty to jumble together, in this manner, metaphorical and 
plain language, it is still more so, 

In the fifth place, to make two different Metaphors meet on 
one object. This is what is called Mixed Metaphor, and is 
indeed one of the grossest abuses of this Figure ; such as Shake- 
speare's expression, " to take arms against a sea of troubles." 
This makes a most unnatural medley, and confounds the imagina- 
tion entirely. Quinctilian has sufficiently guarded us against it. 
"Id imprimis est custodiendum, ut quo genere coeperis transla- 
tions, hoc finias. Multi autem cum initium a tempestate sum- 
serunt, incendio aut ruina finiunt ; quae est inconsequentia rerum 
foedissima."* Observe, for instance, what an inconsistent group 
of objects is brought together by Shakespeare, in the following 

* " We must be particularly attentive to end with the same kind of Metaphor with 
which we have begun. Some, when they begin the figure with a Tempest, conclude 
it with a Conflagration ; which forms a shameful inconsistency." 

O 



170 METAPHOK. [LECT. XV. 

passage of the Tempest : speaking of persons recovering their 
judgment after the enchantment, which held them, was dissolved: 

The charm dissolves apace, 
And as the morning steals upon the night, 
Melting the darkness, so their rising senses 
Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle 
Their clearer reason. 

So many ill-sorted things are here joined, that the mind can see 
nothing clearly ; the morning stealing upon the darkness, and at 
the same time melting it ; the senses of men chasing fumes, igno- 
rant fumes, and fumes that mantle. So, again, in Romeo and 
Juliet : 

As glorious 
As is a winged messenger from heaven, 
Unto the white upturned wondering eyes 
Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him, 
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds, 
And sails upon the bosom of the air. 

Here the angel is represented as, at one moment bestriding the 
clouds, and sailing upon the air ; and upon the bosom of the air 
too ; which forms such a confused picture, that it is impossible 
for any imagination to comprehend it. 

More correct writers than Shakespeare sometimes fall into this 
error of mixing Metaphors. It is surprising how the following 
inaccuracy should have escaped Mr. Addison in his letter from 
Italy : 

I bridle in my struggling muse with pain, 
That longs to launch into a bolder strain.* 

The muse, figured as a horse, maybe bridled; but when we speak 
of launching } we make it a ship ; and by no force of imagination, 
can it be supposed both a horse and a ship at one moment; 
bridled, to hinder it from launching. The same author, in one of 
his numbers in the Spectator, says, " There is not a single view 
of human nature, which is not sufficient to extinguish the seeds, 
of Pride." Observe the incoherence of the things here joined 
together, making " a view extinguish, and extinguish seeds." 
Horace, also, is incorrect in the following passage : 

Urit enim fulgore suo qui pregravat artes 
Infra se positas. 

Urit qui pregravat. — He dazzles who bears down with his 
weight ; makes plainly an inconsistent mixture of metaphorical 
ideas. Neither can this other passage be altogether vindicated : 

Ah ! quanta laboras in Charybdi, 
Digne puer, meliore flamma ! 

Where a whirlpool of water, Charybdis, is said to be a flame, not 
good enough for this young man ; meaning, that he was unfor- 

* In my observation on this passage, I find, that I had coincided with Dr. Johnson, 
who passes a similar censure upon it in his Life of Addison. 



LECT. XV.] METAPHOR. 171 

tunate in the object of his passion. Flame is, indeed, become 
almost a literal word for the passion of love ; but as it still 
retains, in some degree, its figurative power, it should never have 
been used as synonymous with water, and mixed with it in the 
same Metaphor. When Mr. Pope (Eloisa to Abelard) says, 

All then is full, possessing and possest, 
No craving void left aking in the breast ; 

A void may, metaphorically, be said to crave ; but can a voi'd be 
said to ake ? 

A good rule has been given for examining the propriety of 
Metaphors, when we doubt whether or not they may be of the 
mixed kind ; namely, that we should try to form a picture upon 
them, and consider how the parts would agree, and what sort of 
figure the whole would present, when delineated with a pencil. 
By this means we should become sensible, whether inconsistent 
circumstances were mixed, and a monstrous image thereby pro- 
duced, as in all those faulty instances I have now been giving ; 
or whether the object was, all along, presented in one natural and 
consistent point of view. 

As Metaphors ought never to be mixed, so, in the sixth place, 
we should avoid crowding them together on the same object. 
Supposing each of the Metaphors to be preserved distinct, yet, 
if they be heaped on one another, they produce a confusion 
somewhat of the same kind with the mixed Metaphor. We may 
judge of this by the following passage from Horace : 

Motum ex Metello consule civicum, 
Bellique causas, et vitia, et modos, 

Ludumque fortunae, gravesque 

Principum amicitias, et anna 
Nondum expiatis uncta cruoribus, 
Periculosae plenum opus aleae 
Tractas, et incedis per ignes 
y Suppositos cineri doloso.* Lib. II. 1. 

This passage, though very poetical, is, however, harsh and 
obscure ; owing to no other cause but this, that three distinct 
Metaphors are crowded together, to describe the difficulty of 
Pollio's writing a history of the civil wars. First, " Tractas 

* Of warm commotions, wrathful jars 

The growing seeds of civil wars ; 

Of double fortune's cruel games, 

The specious means, the private aims, 
And fatal friendships of the guilty great, 
Alas ! how fatal to the Roman state ! 

Of mighty legions late subdued, 

And arms with Latian blood embrued ; 

Yet unatoned, (a labour vast 

Doubtful the die, and dire the cast !) 
You treat adventurous, and incautious tread 
On fires with faithless embers overspread. Francis. 

O 2 



172 METAPHOE. [LECT. XV. 

arma uncta cruoribus nondum expiatis ; " next, " Opus plenum 
periculosae aleae ; " and then, " Incedis per ignes, suppositos 
doloso cineri." The mind has difficulty in passing readily through 
so many different views given it, in quick succession, of the 
same object. 

The only other rule concerning Metaphors, which I shall add, 
in the seventh place, is, that they be not too far pursued. If 
the resemblance on which the Figure is founded, be long dwelt 
upon, and carried into all its minute circumstances, we make an 
allegory instead of a Metaphor ; we tire the reader, who soon 
becomes weary of this play of fancy ; and we render our dis- 
course obscure. This is called, straining a Metaphor. Cowley 
deals in this to excess ; and to this error is owing, in a great 
measure, that intricacy and harshness, in his Figurative Lan- 
guage, which I before remarked. Lord Shaftesbury is sometimes 
guilty of pursuing his Metaphors too far. Fond, to a high 
degree, of every decoration of style, when once he had hit upon 
a Figure that pleased him, he was extremely loath to part with 
it. Thus, in his Advice to an Author, having taken up soliloquy, 
or meditation, under the Metaphor of a proper method of evacu- 
ation for an author, he pursues his Metaphor through several 
pages, under all the forms " of discharging crudities, throwing 
off froth and scum, bodily operation, taking physic, curing indi- 
gestion, giving vent to choler, bile, flatulencies, and tumours ; " 
till, at last, the idea becomes nauseous. Dr. Young also often 
trespasses in the same way. The merit, however, of this writer 
in figurative Language is great, and deserves to be remarked. 
No writer, ancient or modern, had a stronger imagination than 
Dr. Young, or one more fertile in figures of every kind. His 
Metaphors are often new, and often natural and beautiful. But 
his imagination was strong and rich, rather than delicate and 
correct. Hence, in his Night Thoughts, there prevails an ob- 
scurity, and a hardness in his style. The Metaphors are fre- 
quently too bold, and frequently too far pursued ; the reader is 
dazzled rather than enlightened ; and kept constantly on the 
stretch to keep pace with the author. We may observe, for 
instance, how the following Metaphor is spun out : 

Thy thoughts are vagabond ; all outward bound, 

Midst sands, and rocks, and storms, to cruise for pleasure ; 

If gained, dear bought ; and better missed than gained. 

Fancy and sense, from an infected shore, 

Thy cargo brings ; and pestilence the prize ; 

Then such the thirst, insatiable thirst, 

By fond indulgence but inflamed the more, 

Fancy still cruises, when poor sense is tired. 

Speaking of old age, he says it should 

Walk thoughtful on the silent solemn shore 
Of that vast ocean, it must sail so soon : 
And put good works on board ; and wait the wind 
That shortly blows us into worlds unknown. 



LECT. XV.] ALLEGORY. 173 

The first two lines are uncommonly beautiful; "walk thought- 
ful on the silent," &c. but when he continues the Metaphor, "to 
putting good works on board, and waiting the wind," it plainly 
becomes strained, and sinks in dignity. Of all the English 
authors, I know none so happy in his Metaphors as Mr. Addison. 
His imagination was neither so rich nor so strong as Dr. Young's ; 
but far more chaste and delicate. Perspicuity, natural grace, 
and ease, always distinguish his Figures. They are neither 
harsh nor strained ; they never appear to have been studied or 
sought after ; but seem to rise of their own accord from the 
subject, and constantly embellish it. 

I have now treated fully of the Metaphor, and the rules that 
should govern it ; a part of style so important, that it required 
particular illustration. I have only to add a few words concern- 
ing Allegory. 

An Allegory may be regarded as a continued Metaphor ; as 
it is the representation of some oue thing by another that 
resembles it ; and that is made to stand for it. Thus, in Prior's 
Henry and Emma, Emma in the following allegorical manner 
describes her constancy to Henry : 

Did I but purpose to embark with thee 
On the smooth surface of a summer's sea, 
While gentle zephyrs play with prosp'rous gales, 
And fortune's favour fills the swelling sails, 
But would forsake the ship, and make the shore, 
When the winds whistle, and the tempests roar ? 

We may take also from the Scriptures a very fine example of 
an Allegory, in the 80th Psalm ; where the people of Israel are 
represented under the image of a vine, and the Figure is sup- 
ported throughout with great correctness and beauty : " Thou 
hast brought a vine out of Egypt, thou hast cast out the heathen, 
and planted it. Thou preparedst room before it, and didst cause 
it to take deep root, and it filled the land. The hills were 
covered with the shadow of it ; and the boughs thereof were like 
the goodly cedars. She sent out her boughs into the sea, and 
her branches into the river. Why hast thou broken down her 
hedges, so that all they which pass by the way do pluck her ? 
The boar out of the wood doth waste it ; and the wild beast of 
the field doth devour it, Return, we beseech thee, O God of 
hosts ; look down from heaven, and behold, and visit this vine ! " 
Here there is no circumstance (except perhaps one phrase at the 
beginning, "thou hast cast out the heathen") that does not 
strictly agree to a vine, whilst at the same time the whole quad- 
rates happily with the Jewish state represented by this Figure. 
This is the first and principal requisite in the conduct of an 
Allegory, that the figurative and the literal meaning be not 
mixed inconsistently together. For instance, instead of describing 
the vine, as wasted by the boar from the wood and devoured by 






174 HYPERBOLE. [LECT. XVI. 

the wild beast of the field, had the Psalmist said, it was afflicted 
by heathens, or overcome by enemies (which is the real meaning), 
this would have ruined the Allegory, and produced the same 
confusion, of which I gave examples in Metaphors, when the 
figurative and literal sense are mixed and jumbled together. 
Indeed the same rules that were given for Metaphors, may also 
be applied to Allegories, on account of the affinity they bear to 
each other. The only material difference between them, besides 
the one being short, and the other being prolonged, is, that a 
Metaphor always explains itself by the words that are connected 
with it in their proper and natural meaning ; as when I say, 
" Achilles was a Lion : " an " able Minister is the pillar of the 
state ; " my Lion and my Pillar are sufficiently interpreted by 
the mention of Achilles and the Minister, which I join to them : 
but an Allegory is, or may be, allowed to stand more discon- 
nected with the literal meaning ; the interpretation not so 
directly pointed out, but left to our own reflection. 

Allegories were a favourite method of delivering instructions 
in ancient times ; for what we call Fables or Parables are no 
other than Allegories ; where, by words and actions attributed 
to beasts or inanimate objects, the dispositions of men are figured; 
and, what we call the moral, is the unfigured sense or meaning 
of the Allegory. An Enigma or Kiddle is also a species of 
Allegory ; one thing represented or imagined by another, but 
purposely wrapt up under so many circumstances, as to be ren- 
dered obscure. Where a riddle is not intended, it is always a 
fault in Allegory to be too dark. The meaning should be easily 
seen through the figure employed to shadow it. However, the 
proper mixture of light and shade in such compositions, the exact 
adjustment of all the figurative circumstances with the literal 
sense, so as neither to lay the meaning too bare and open, nor to 
cover and wrap it up too much, has ever been found an affair of 
great nicety ; and there are few species of composition in which 
it is more difficult to write so as to please and command attention, 
than in Allegories. In some of the visions of the Spectator, we 
have examples of Allegories very happily executed. 



LECTUEE XVI. 

HYPERBOLE — PERSONIFICATION — APOSTROPHE, 

The next Figure concerning which I am to treat is called 
Hyperbole, or Exaggeration. It consists in magnifying an object 
beyond its natural bounds. It may be considered sometimes as 
a Trope, and sometimes as a Figure of thought : and here indeed 
the distinction between these two classes begins not to be 



LECT. XVI. J HYPEEBOLE. 175 

clear, nor is it of any importance that we should have recourse to 
metaphysical subtilties, in order to keep them distinct. Whether 
we call it Trope or Figure, it is plain that it is a mode of speech 
which hath some foundation in nature. For in all languages, 
even in common conversation, hyperbolical expressions very fre- 
quently occur ; as swift as the wind ; as white as the snow ; and 
the like : and our common forms of compliment are almost all of 
them extravagant Hyperboles. If any thing be remarkably 
good or great in its kind, we are instantly ready to add to it 
some exaggerating epithet ; and to make it the greatest or best 
we ever saw. The Imagination has always a tendency to gratify 
itself, by magnifying its present object, and carrying it to excess. 
More or less of this hyperbolical turn will prevail in language, 
according to the liveliness of imagination among the people who 
speak it. Hence young people deal always much in Hyperboles. 
Hence the language of the Orientals was far more hyperbolical 
than that of the Europeans, who are of more phlegmatic, or, if 
you please, of more correct imagination. Hence, among all 
writers in early times, and in the rude periods of society, we 
may expect this Figure to abound. Greater experience, and 
more cultivated society, abate the warmth of imagination, and 
chasten the manner of expression. 

The exaggerated expressions to which our ears are accustomed 
in conversation, scarcely strike us as Hyperboles. In an instant 
we make the proper abatement, and understand them according 
to their just value. But when there is something striking and 
unusual in the form of a hyperbolical expression, it then rises 
into a Figure of Speech which draws our attention : and here it 
is necessary to observe, that unless the reader's imagination be 
in such a state as disposes it to rise and swell along with the 
hyperbolical expression, he is always hurt and offended by it. 
For a sort of disagreeable force is put upon him ; he is required 
to strain and exert his fancy, when he feels no inclination to 
make any such effort. Hence the Hyperbole is a Figure of dif- 
ficult management ; and ought neither to be frequently used, nor 
long dwelt upon. On some occasions, it is undoubtedly proper, 
being, as was before observed, the natural style of a sprightly 
and heated imagination ; but when Hyperboles are unseasonable, 
or too frequent, they render a composition frigid and unaffecting. 
They are the resource of an author of feeble imagination ; of one, 
describing objects which either want native dignity in them- 
selves ; or whose dignity he cannot show by describing them 
simply, and in their just proportions, and is therefore obliged to 
rest upon tumid and exaggerated expressions. 

Hyperboles are of two kinds ; either such as are employed in 
description, or such as are suggested by the warmth of passion. 
The best by far are those which are the effect of passion : for if 
the imagination has a tendency to magnify its objects beyond 
their natural proportion, passion possesses this tendency in a 



176 HYPEBBOLE. [LECT. XVI. 

vastly stronger degree; and, therefore, not only excuses the 
most daring Figures, but very often renders them natural and 
just. All passions, without exception, love, terror, amazement, 
indignation, anger, and even grief, throw the mind into confu- 
sion, aggravate their objects, and of course prompt a hyperbolical 
style. Hence the following sentiments of Satan in Milton, 
as strongly as they are described, contain nothing but what is 
natural and proper ; exhibiting the picture of a mind agitated 
with rage and despair : 

Me, miserable ! which way shall I fly 

Infinite wrath, and infinite despair? 

Which way I fly is Hell, myself am Hell, 

And in the lowest depth, a lower deep, 

Still threat'ning to devour me, opens wide, 

To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heaven. B. iv. 1. 73. 

In simple description, though Hyperboles are not excluded, 
yet they must be used with more caution, and require more 
preparation, in order to make the mind relish them. Either the 
object described must be of that kind, which of itself seizes the 
fancy strongly, and disposes it to run beyond bounds ; something 
vast, surprising, and new, or the writer's art must be exerted in 
heating the fancy gradually, and preparing it to think highly of 
the object which he intends to exaggerate. When a poet is 
describing an earthquake or a storm, or when he has brought 
us into the midst of a battle, we can bear strong Hyperboles 
without displeasure. But when he is describing only a woman 
in grief, it is impossible not to be disgusted with such wild 
exaggeration as the following, in one of our dramatic poets : 

I found her on the floor 
In all the storm of grief, yet beautiful ; 
Pouring forth tears at such a lavish rate, 
That were the world on fire, they might have drowned 
The wrath of Heaven, and quenched the mighty ruin. Lee. 

This is mere bombast. The person herself who was under the 
distracting agitations of grief, might be permitted to hyperbolize 
strongly ; but the spectator describing her, cannot be allowed an 
equal liberty : for this plain reason, that the one is supposed to 
utter the sentiments of passion, the other speaks only the lan- 
guage of description, which is always according to the dictates 
of nature, on a lower tone : a distinction which, however obvious, 
has not been attended to by many writers. 

How far a Hyperbole, supposing it properly introduced, may 
be safely carried without over-stretching it ; what is the proper 
measure and boundary of this Figure, cannot, as far as I know, 
be ascertained by any precise rule. Good sense and just taste 
must determine the point, beyond which, if we pass, we become 
extravagant. Lucan may be pointed out as an author apt to 
be excessive in his Hyperboles. Among the compliments paid 



LECT. XVI.] HYPERBOLE. 177 

by the Roman Poets to their Emperors, it had become fashion- 
able to ask them, what part of the heavens they would choose 
for their habitation, after they should have become Gods? 
Virgil had already carried this sufficiently far, in his address to 
Augustus : 

Tibi brachia contrahit ingens 
Scorpius, et Coeli justa plus parte relinquit.* Geor. I. 

But this did not suffice Lucan. Resolved to outdo all his pre- 
decessors, in a like address to Nero, he very gravely beseeches 
him not to choose his place near either of the poles, but to be 
sure to occupy just the middle of the heavens, lest by going 
either to one side or other, his weight should overset the 
universe : 

Sed neque in Arctoo sedem tibi legeris orbe 

Nee polus adversi calidus qua mergitur austri : 

^theris immensi partem si presseris unam 

Sentiet axis onus. Librati pondera Coeli 

Orbe tene medio, t Phars. I. 53. 

Such thoughts as these, are what the French call outres, and 
always proceed from a false fire of genius. The Spanish and 
African writers, as Tertullian, Cyprian, Augustin, are remarked 
for being fond of them. As in that Epitaph on Charles V. by a 
Spanish writer : 

Pro tumulo ponas orhem, pro tegmine ccelum, 
Sidera pro facibus, pro lacrymis maria. 

Sometimes they dazzle and impose by their boldness ; but 
wherever reason and good sense are so much violated, there can 
be no true beauty. Epigrammatic writers are frequently guilty 
in this respect ; resting the whole merit of their epigrams on 
some extravagant hyperbolical turn; such as the following of 
Dr. Pitcairn's, upon Holland's being gained from the ocean : 

Tellurem fecere Dii ; sua littora Belgae ; 

Immensaeque molis opus utrumque fuit ; 
Dii vacuo sparsas glomerarunt aethere terras, 

Nil ibi quod operi possit obesse fuit. 
At Belgis, maria et coeli naturaque rerum 

Obstitit ; obstantes hi domuere Deos. 

* " The Scorpion ready to receive thy laws, 

Yields half his region, and contracts his paws." 
f But, oh ! whatever be thy Godhead great, 
Fix not in regions too remote thy seat ; 
Nor deign thou near the frozen Bear to shine, 
Nor where the sultry southern stars decline. 
Press not too much on any part the sphere. 
Hard were the task thy weight divine to bear ; 
Soon would the axis feel the unusual load, 
And, groaning, bend beneath th' incumbent God ; 
O'er the mid orb more equal shalt thou rise, 
And with a juster balance fix the skies. R'owe. 



178 PEKSONIFICATION. [LECT. XVI. 

So much for the Hyperbole. We proceed now to those Figures 
which lie altogether in the thought ; where the words are taken 
in their common and literal sense. 

Among these, the first place is unquestionably due to Personi- 
fication, or that Figure by which we attribute life and action to 
inanimate objects. The technical term for this is Prosopopoeia ; 
but as Personification is of the same import, and more allied to 
our own language, it will be better to use this word. 

It is a Figure, the use of which is very extensive, and its 
foundation laid deep in human nature. At first view, and when 
considered abstractly, it would appear to be a figure of the 
utmost boldness, and to border on the extravagant and ridicu- 
lous. For what can seem more remote from the track of reason- 
able thought, than to speak of stones and trees, and fields and 
rivers, as if they were living creatures, and to attribute to them 
thought and sensation, affections and actions ? One might 
imagine this to be no more than childish conceit, which no person 
of taste could relish. In fact, however, the case is very different. 
No such ridiculous effect is produced by Personification, when 
properly employed ; on the contrary, it is found to be natural 
and agreeable; nor is any very uncommon degree of passion 
required, in order to make us relish it. All poetry, even in its 
most gentle and humble forms, abounds with it. From prose, it 
is far from being excluded ; nay, in common conversation, very 
frequent approaches are made to it. When we say, the ground 
thirsts for rain, or the earth smiles with plenty ; when we speak 
of ambition's being restless, or a disease being deceitful, such 
expressions show the facility with which the mind can accommo- 
date the properties of living creatures to things that are inani- 
mate, or to abstract conceptions of its own forming. 

Indeed, it is very remarkable, that there is a wonderful prone- 
ness in human nature to animate all objects. Whether this 
arises from a sort of assimilating principle, from a propension to 
spread a resemblance of ourselves over all other things, or from 
whatever other cause it arises, so it is, that almost every emotion 
which in the least agitates the mind, bestows upon its object a 
momentary idea of life. Let a man by any unwary step, sprain 
his ankle, or hurt his foot upon a stone, and, in the ruffled dis- 
composed moment, he will sometimes feel himself disposed to 
break the stone in pieces, or to utter passionate expressions 
against it, as if it had done him an injury. If one has been long 
accustomed to a certain set of objects, which have made a strong 
impression on his imagination; as to a house, where he has 
passed many agreeable years ; or to fields, and trees, and moun- 
tains, among which he has often walked with the greatest de- 
light : when he is obliged to part with them, especially if he has 
no prospect of ever seeing them again, he can scarce avoid 
having of the same feeling as when he is leaving old friends. 
They seem endowed with life. They become objects of his 



LECT. XVI.] PERSONIFICATION. 179 

affection; and in the moment of his parting, it scarce seems 
absurd to him, to give vent to his feelings in words, and to take 
a formal adieu. 

So strong is that impression of life which is made upon us, by 
the more magnificent and striking objects of nature especially, 
that I doubt not, in the least, of this having been one cause of 
the multiplication of divinities in the heathen world. The be- 
lief of Dryads and Kaiads, of the Genius of the Wood, and the 
God of the River, among men of lively imaginations, in the 
early ages of the world, easily arose from this turn of mind. 
When their favourite rural objects had often been animated 
in their fancy, it was an easy transition to attribute to them 
some real divinity, some unseen power or genius which inha- 
bited them, or in some peculiar manner belonging to them. 
Imagination was highly gratified, by thus gaining somewhat 
to rest upon with more stability ; and when belief coincided so 
much with imagination, very slight causes would be sufficient to 
establish it. 

From this deduction may be easily seen how it comes to pass, 
that Personification makes so great a figure in all compositions, 
where imagination or passion have any concern. On innumer- 
able occasions, it is the very language of imagination and 
passion, and, therefore deserves to be attended to, and examined 
with peculiar care. There are three different degrees of this 
Figure ; which it is necessary to remark and distinguish, in 
order to determine the propriety of its use. The first is, when 
some of the properties or qualities of living creatures are ascribed 
to inanimate objects ; the second, when those inanimate objects 
are introduced as acting like such as have life ; and the third, 
when they are represented, either as speaking to us, or as 
listening to what we say to them. 

The first and lowest decree of this Figure consists in ascribing; 
to inanimate objects some of the qualities of living creatures. 
Where this is done, as is most commonly the case, in a word or 
two, and by way of an epithet added to the object, as, " a raging 
storm, a deceitful disease, a cruel disaster," &c. it raises the style 
so little, that the humblest discourse will admit it without any 
force. 

This, indeed, is such an obscure degree of Personification, 
that one may doubt whether it deserves the name, and might 
not be classed with simple Metaphors, which escape in a manner 
unnoticed. Happily employed, however, it sometimes adds 
beauty and sprightliness to an expression, as in this line of 
Virgil : 

Aut conj urate- descendens Dacus ab Istro. Geor. II. 474. 

Where the personal epithet, conjurato, applied to the river Istro, 
is infinitely more poetical than if it had been applied to the 
person thus : 

• Aut conjuratus descendens Dacus ab Istro. 



180 PERSONIFICATION. [LECT. XVI. 

A very little taste will make any one feel the difference between 
these two lines. 

The next degree of this Figure is, when we introduce inani- 
mate objects acting like those that have life. Here we rise a 
step higher, and the Personification becomes sensible. Accord- 
ing to the nature of the action, which we attribute to those 
inanimate objects, and the particularity with which we describe 
it, such is the strength of the Figure. When pursued to any 
length, it belongs only to studied harangues, to highly figured 
and eloquent discourse ; when slightly touched, it may be 
admitted into subjects of less elevation. Cicero, for instance, 
speaking of the cases where killing another is lawful in self- 
defence, uses the following words: "Aliquando nobis gladius 
ad occidendum hominem ab ipsis porrigitur legibus." (Orat. 
pro Milone.) The expression is happy. The laws are personi- 
fied, as reaching forth their hand to give us a sword for putting 
one to death. Such short Personifications as these may be 
admitted, even into moral treatises, or works of cool reasoning ; 
and, provided they be easy and not strained, and that we be not 
cloyed with too frequent returns of them, they have a good effect 
on style, and render it both strong and lively. 

The genius of our language gives us an advantage in the use 
of this Figure. As, with us, no substantive nouns have gender, 
or are masculine and feminine, except the proper names of male 
and female creatures; by giving a gender to any inanimate 
object, or abstract idea, that is, in place of the pronoun, it, 
using the personal pronouns, he or she, we presently raise the 
style, and begin Personification. In solemn discourse, this may 
often be done to good purpose when speaking of religion, or 
virtue, or our country, or any such object of dignity. I shall 
give a remarkably fine example from a sermon of Bishop 
Sherlock's, where we shall see natural religion beautifully per- 
sonified, and be able to judge from it of the spirit and grace 
which this Figure, when well conducted, bestows on a discourse. 
I must take notice, at the same time, that it is an instance of 
this Figure, carried as far as prose, even in its highest elevation, 
will admit, and, therefore, suited only to compositions where 
the great efforts of eloquence are allowed. The author is com- 
paring together our Saviour and Mahomet : " Go," says he, "to 
your Natural Religion ; lay before her Mabomet, and his disci- 
ples, arrayed in armour and blood, riding in triumph over the 
spoils of thousands who fell by his victorious sword. Show her 
the cities which he set in flames, the countries which he ravished 
and destroyed, and the miserable distress of all the inhabitants of 
the earth. When she has viewed him in this scene, carry her 
into his retirement ; show her the prophet's chamber ; his concu- 
bines and his wives ; and let her hear him allege revelation, and 
a divine commission to justify his adultery and lust. When she 
is tired with this prospect, then show her the blessed Jesus, 



LECT. XVI.] PERSONIFICATION. 181 

humble and meek, doing good to all the sons of men. Let her 
see him in his most retired privacies ; let her follow him to the 
mount, and hear his devotions and supplications to God. Carry 
her to his table to view his poor fare ; and hear his heavenly 
discourse. Let her attend him to the tribunal, and consider the 
patience with which he endured the scoffs and reproaches of his 
enemies. Lead her to his cross ; let her view him in the agony 
of death, and hear his last prayer for his persecutors : Father, 
forgive them, for they know not what they do ! — When Natural 
Religion has thus viewed both, ask her, which is the Prophet of 
God ? But her answer we have already had, when she saw part 
of this scene, through the eyes of the Centurion, who attended 
at the cross. By him she spoke, and said, Truly this man was 
the Son of God!"* This is more than elegant ; it is truly sub- 
lime. The whole passage is animated ; and the Figure rises at 
the conclusion, when Natural Religion, who, before, was only a 
spectator, is introduced as speaking by the Centurion's voice. 
It has the better effect too, that it occurs at the conclusion of a 
discourse, where we naturally look for most warmth and dignity. 
Did Bishop Sherlock's Sermons, or, indeed, any English sermons 
whatever, afford us many passages equal to this, we should 
oftener have recourse to them for instances of the beauty of 
composition. 

Hitherto we have spoken of prose ; in poetry, Personifications 
of this kind are extremely frequent, and are, indeed, the life and 
soul of it. We expect to find every thing animated in the 
descriptions of a poet who has a lively fancy. Accordingly 
Homer, the father and prince of poets, is remarkable for the use 
of this Figure. War, peace, darts, spears, towns, rivers, every 
thing, in short, is alive in his writings. The same is the case 
with Milton and Shakespeare. ~No personification, in any 
author, is more striking, or introduced on a more proper occa- 
sion, than the following of Milton's, on occasion of Eve's eating 
the forbidden fruit : 

So saying, her rash hand, in evil hour, 

Forth reaching to the fruit, she pluck'd, she ate : 

Earth felt the wound ; and Nature, from her seat 

Sighing, through all her works, gave signs of woe, 

That all was lost. B. ix. 780. 

All the circumstances and ages of men, poverty, riches, youth, 
old age, all the dispositions and passions, melancholy, love, grief, 
contentment, are capable of being personified in poetry, with 
great propriety. Of this we meet with frequent examples in 
Milton's Allegro and Penseroso, Parnell's Hymn to Content- 
ment, Thomson's Seasons, and all the good poets : nor, indeed, 
is it easy to set any bounds to Personifications of this kind, in 
poetiy. 

* Bishop Sherlock's Sermons, Vol. I. Disc. ix. 



182 PERSONIFICATION. [LECT. XVI. 

One of the greatest pleasures we receive from poetry, is, to 
find ourselves always in the midst of our fellows ; and to see 
every thing thinking, feeling, and acting as we ourselves do. 
This is perhaps the principal charm of this sort of figured style, 
that it introduces us into society with all nature, and interests 
us, even in inanimate objects, by forming a connexion between 
them and us, through that sensibility which it ascribes to them. 
This is exemplified in the following beautiful passage of Thom- 
son's Summer, wherein the life which he bestows upon all 
nature, when describing the effects of the rising sun, renders 
the scenery uncommonly gay and interesting : 

But yonder comes the powerful king of day 
Rejoicing in the east. The lessening cloud, 
The kindling azure, and the mountain's hrow 
Tipt with ethereal gold, his near approach 
Betoken glad. 

By thee renn'd, 



In brisker measures, the relucent stream 
Frisks o'er the mead. The precipice abrupt, 
Projecting horror on the blackened flood, 
Softens at thy return. The desert joys 
Wildly through all his melancholy bounds, 
Rude ruins glitter ; and the briny deep, 
Seen from some pointed promontory's top, 
Reflects from every fluctuating wave 
A glance extensive as the day. 

The same effect is remarkable in that fine passage of Milton : 

To the nuptial bower 
I led her blushing like the morn. All heaven 
And happy constellations, on that hour, 
Shed their selectest influence. The earth 
Gave signs of gratulation, and each hill. 
Joyous the birds : fresh gales, and gentle airs 
Whispered it to the woods, and from their wings 
Flung rose, flung odour from the spicy shrub, 
Disporting. 

The third and highest degree of this Figure remains to be 
mentioned, when inanimate objects are introduced, not only as 
feeling and acting, but as speaking to us, or hearing and listening 
when we address ourselves to them. This, though on several 
occasions far from being unnatural, is, however, more difiScult in 
the execution, than the other kinds of Personification. For this 
is plainly the boldest of all rhetorical Figures ; it is the style of 
strong passion only; and therefore, never to be attempted, 
unless when the mind is considerably heated and agitated. A 
slight Personification of some inanimate thing, acting as if it had 
life, can be relished by the mind, in the midst of cool description, 
and when its ideas are going on in the ordinary train. But it 
must be in a state of violent emotion, and have departed con- 
siderably from its common track of thought, before it can so far 
realize the Personification of an insensible object, as to conceive 
it listening to what we say, or making any return to us. All 



LECT. XVI.] PERSONIFICATION. 183 

strong passions, however, have a tendency to use this Figure ; 
not only love, anger, and indignation, but even those which are 
seemingly more dispiriting, such as grief, remorse, and melan- 
choly. For all passions struggle for vent, and if they can find 
no other object, will, rather than be silent, pour themselves forth 
to woods, and rocks, and the most insensible things ; especially 
if these be in any degree connected with the causes and objects 
that have thrown the mind into this agitation. Hence, in poetry, 
where the greatest liberty is allowed to the language of passion, 
it is easy to produce many beautiful examples of this Figure. 
Milton affords us an extremely fine one, in that moving and 
tender address which Eve makes to Paradise, just before she is 
compelled to leave it. 

Oh ! unexpected stroke, worse than of death ! 

Must I thus leave thee, Paradise ! thus leave 

Thee, native soil, these happy walks and shades, 

Fit haunt of gods ! where I had hope to spend, 

Quiet, though sad, the respite of that day, 

Which must be mortal to us both. O flowers ! 

That never will in other climate grow, 

My early visitation and my last 

At ev'n, which I bred up with tender hand, 

From your first op'ning buds, and gave you names I 

Who now shall rear you to the sun, or rank 

Your tribes, and water from th' ambrosial fount? Book ii. 1. 268.. 

This is altogether the language of nature, and of female passion. 
It is observable, that all plaintive passions are peculiarly prone 
to the use of this Figure. The complaints which Philoctetes, 
in Sophocles, pours out to the rocks and caves of Lemnos, amidst 
the excess of his grief and despair, are remarkably fine examples 
of it.* And there are frequent examples, not in poetry only, 
but in real life, of persons, when just about to suffer death, 
taking a passionate farewell of the sun, moon, and stars, or other 
sensible objects around them. 

There are two great rules for the management of this sort of 
Personification. The first rule is, never to attempt it, unless 
when prompted by strong passion, and never to continue it when 
the passions begin to flag. It is one of those high ornaments, 
which can only find place in the most warm and spirited parts of 
composition ; and there, too r must be employed with moderation. 

The second rule is, never to personify any object in this way, 
but such as has some dignity in itself, and can make a proper 

* 'SI "KifAlviq, oo TTgoSXim?, a> %uvovcriut 
©»£a>v ogztaov at Karagguyss irtrgai 
'Tfxiv rati' o!$' civ yap aWov oTS' oral "htyw 
Avast\aioy.ai ira^cva-i rag tiaiQeo-iv, &c. 

" O mountains, rivers, rocks, and savage herds, 
To you I speak ! to you alone I now 
Must breathe my sorrows ! you are wont to hear 
My sad complaints, and I will tell you all 
That I have suffered from Achilles' son ! " Franklin. 



184 PERSONIFICATION. [LECT. XVI. 

figure in this elevation to which we raise it. The observance of 
this rule is required, even in the lower degrees of Personifica- 
tion ; but still more, when an address is made to the personified 
object. To address the corpse of a deceased friend is natural, 
but to address the clothes which he wore, introduces mean and 
degrading ideas. So also, addressing the several parts of one's 
body, as if they were animated, is not congruous to the dignity 
of passion. For this reason, I must condemn the following 
passage, in a very beautiful poem of Mr. Pope's, Eloisa to 
Abelard : 

Deai' fatal name ! rest ever unrevealed, 
Nor pass these lips in holy silence sealed. 
Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise, 
Where, mixed with God's, his loved idea lies : 
Oh ! write it not, my hand ! — his name appears 
Already written : — blot it out, my tears ! 

Here are several different objects and parts of the body per- 
sonified ; and each of them is addressed or spoken to ; let us 
consider with what propriety. The first is, the name of Abe- 
lard : " Dear fatal name ! rest ever," &c. To this no reasonable 
objection can be made. For, as the name of a person often 
stands for the person himself, and suggests the same ideas, it can 
bear this Personification with sufficient dignity. Next, Eloisa 
speaks to himself; and personifies her heart for this purpose: 
" Hide it, my heart, within that close," &c. As the heart is a 
dignified part of the human frame, and is often put for the mind 
or affections, this also may pass without blame. But, when from 
her heart she passes to her hand, and tells her hand not to write 
his name, this is forced and unnatural : a personified hand is low, 
and not in the style of true passion ; and the Figure becomes 
still worse, when, in the last place, she exhorts her tears to blot 
out what her hand had written. " Oh ! write it not, " &c. 
There is, in these two lines, an air of epigrammatic conceit, which 
native passion never suggests; and which is altogether un- 
suitable to the tenderness which breathes through the rest of that 
excellent poem. 

In prose compositions, this Figure requires to be used with 
still greater moderation and delicacy. The same liberty is not 
allowed to the imagination there, as in poetry. The same assist- 
ances cannot be obtained for raising passion to its proper height 
by the force of numbers, and the glow of style. However, 
addresses to inanimate objects are not excluded from prose ; but 
have their place only in the higher species of oratory. A public 
Speaker may on some occasions very properly address religion or 
virtue : or his native country, or some city or province, which 
has suffered perhaps great calamities, or been the scene of some 
memorable action, But we must remember, that as such 
addresses are amongst the highest efforts of eloquence, they 
should never be attempted, unless by persons of more than 



LECT. XVI.] APOSTROPHE, 185 

ordinary genius. For if the orator fails in his design of moving 
our passions by them, he is sure of being laughed at. Of all 
frigid things, the most frigid are the awkward and unseasonable 
attempts sometimes made toward such kinds of Personification, 
especially if they be long continued. We see the writer or 
speaker toiling, and labouring, to express the language of some 
passion, which he neither feels himself, nor can make us feel. 
We remain not only cold, but frozen ; and are at full leisure to 
criticise on the ridiculous figure which the personified object 
makes, when we ought to have been transported with a glow of 
enthusiasm. Some of the French writers, particularly Bossuet 
and Fletcher, in their sermons and funeral orations, have 
attempted and executed this Figure, not without warmth and 
dignity. Their works are exceedingly worthy of being con- 
sulted, for instances of this, and of several other ornaments of 
style. Indeed, the vivacity and ardour of the French genius is 
more suited to this bold species of oratory, than the more correct 
but less animated genius of the British, who in their prose works 
very rarely attempt any of the high Figures of eloquence.* So 
much for Personifications, or Prosopopoeia in all its different 
forms. 

Apostrophe is a Figure so much of the same kind, that it will 
not require many words. It is an address to a real person ; but 
one who is either absent or dead, as if he were present and 
listening to us. It is so much allied to an address to inanimate 
objects personified, that both these figures are sometimes called 

* In the " Oraisons Funebres de M. Bossuet," which I consider as one of the mas- 
ter-pieces of modern eloquence, Apostrophes and addresses to personified objects 
frequently occur, and are supported with much spirit. Thus, for instance, in the funeral 
oration of Mary of Austria, Queen of France, the author addresses Algiers, in the 
prospect, of the advantage which the arms of Louis XIV. were to gain over it : " Avant 
lui la France, presque sans vaisseaux, tenoit en vain aux deux mers. Maintenant, on 
les voit couvertes depuis le Levant jusqu'au couchant de nos flottes victorieuses : et la 
hardiesse Francoise port par tout la terreur avec le nom de Louis. Tu cederas, tu 
tomberas sous ce vainqueur, Alger ! riche des depouilles de la Chretiente\ Tu disois en 
ton cceur avare, je tiens le mer sous ma loix, et-les nations sont ma proie. La legerete 
de tes vaisseaux te donnoit de la confiance. Mais tu te verras attaqui dans tes murailles, 
comme un oisseau ravissant qu'on iroit chercher parmi ces rochers, et dans son nid, 
ou il partage son butin a ses petits. Tu rends deja tes esclaves. Louis a brise" les fers, 
dont tu acablois ses sujets," &c. In another passage of the same oration, he thus 
apostrophizes the Isle of Pheasants, which had been rendered famous for being the scene 
of those conferences in which the treaty of the Pyrennes between France and Spain, 
and the marriage of this Princess with the King of France were concluded. " Isle 
pacifique ou se doivent terminer les differends de deux grands empires a qui tu sers de 
limites : isle eternellement memorable par les conferences de deux grands ministres. 

■ Auguste journ6e ou deux fieres nations, long terns ennemis, et alors reconciliees par 

Marie Therese s'avancent sur leur confins, leur rois a leur tete, non plus pourse com- 
battre, mais pour s'embrasser. — Fetes sacrees, marriage fortune, voile nuptial, benedic- 
tion, sacrifice, puis je meler aujourdhui vos ceremonies, et vos pompes, avec ces porapes 
funebres, et le comble des grandeurs avec leur ruines !" In the funeral oration of 
Henrietta, Queen of England, (which is perhaps the noblest of all his compositions), 
after recounting all she had done to support her unfortunate husband, he concludes with 
this beautiful Apostrophe : " O mere ! O femme ! O reine admirable et digne d'une 
meilleure fortune, si les fortunes de la terre etoient quelque chose ! Enfin il faut ceder a 
votre sort. Vous avez assez soutenu l'6tat, qui est attaque par une force invincible et 
divine. II ne reste plus deformais, si non que vous teniez ferme parmi ses ruines." 

P 






186 APOSTROPHE. [LECT. XVI. 

Apostrophes. However, the proper Apostrophe is in boldness 
one degree lower than the address to personified objects ; for it 
certainly requires a less effort of imagination to suppose persons 
present who are dead or absent, than to animate insensible 
beings, and direct our discourse to them. Both figures are sub- 
ject to the same rule of being prompted by passion, in order to 
render them natural : for both are the language of passion or 
strong emotions only. Among the poets, Apostrophe is fre- 
quent ; as in Virgil. 

Pereunt Hypanisque Dymasque 
Confixi a sociis ; nee te, tua plurima, Pantheu 
Labentem pietas, nee Apollinis infula texit ! * 

The poems of Ossian are full of the most beautiful instances 
of this Figure : " Weep on the rOcks of roaring winds, O maid 
of Inistore ; bend thy fair head over the waves, thou fairer than 
the ghost of the hills, when it moves in a sunbeam at noon over 
the silence of Morven ! He is fallen ! Thy youth is low ; pale 
beneath the sword of Cuthullin ! " f Quinctilian affords us a 
very fine example in prose ; when, in the beginning of his sixth 
book, deploring the untimely death of his son, which had hap- 
pened during the course of the work, he makes a very moving 
and tender Apostrophe to him. " Nam quo ille animo, qua 
medicorum admiratione, mensium octo valetudinem tulit ? ut me 
in supremis consolatus est? quam etiam jam deficiens, jamque 
non noster, ipsum ilium alienatse mentis errorem circa solas 
literas habuit ? Tuosne ergo, O meae spes inanes ! labentes 
oculos, tuum fugientem spiritum vidi? Tuum corpus frigidum, 
exangue complexus, animam recipere, auramque communem 
haurire amplius potui? Tene, consulari nuper adoptione ad 
omnium spes honorum patris admotum, te, avunculo prsetori 
generum destinatum ; te, omnium spe Atticse eloquentiae candi- 
datum, parens superstes tantum ad poenas amisiP'f In this 
passage, Quinctilian shows the true genius of an orator, as much 
as he does elsewhere that of the critic. 

For such bold Figures of discourse as strong Personifications, 
addresses to personified objects, and Apostrophes, the glowing 
imagination of the ancient Oriental nations was particularly 

* Nor Pantheus ! thee, thy mitre, nor the bands 
Of awful Phoebus, saved from impious hands. Dryden. 

f Fingal, B. I. 

X " With what spirit, and how much to the admiration of the physicians, did he bear 
throughout eight months his lingering distress ! With what tender attention did he 
study, even in the last extremity, to comfort me ! And, when no longer himself, how 
affecting was it to behold the disordered efforts of his wandering mind, wholly employed 
on subjects of literature ! Ah ! my frustrated and fallen hopes ! Have I then beheld 
your closing eyes, and heard the last groan issue from your lips ? After having 
embraced your cold and breathless body, how was it in my power to draw the vital air, 
or continue to drag a miserable life ? When I had j ust beheld you raised by consular 
adoption to the prospect of all your father's honours, destined to be son-in-law to your 
uncle the Praetor, pointed out by general expectation as the successful candidate for the 
Prize of Attic Eloquence, in this moment of your opening honours, must I lose you for 
ever, and remain an unhappy parent, surviving only to suffer woe." 



LECT. XVI.] APOSTROPHE. 187 

fitted. Hence, in the sacred Scriptures, we find some very 
remarkable instances : " O thou sword of the Lord ! how long 
will it be ere thou be quiet ; put thyself up into the scabbard, 
rest and be still ! How can it be quiet, seeing the Lord hath 
given it a charge against Ashkelon, and against the sea-shore ? 
there he hath appointed it." # There is one passage in particular, 
which I must not omit to mention, because it contains a greater 
assemblage of sublime ideas, of bold and daring Figures, than is, 
perhaps any where to be met with. It is in the fourteenth 
chapter of Isaiah, where the prophet thus describes the fall of 
the Assyrian empire : " Thou shalt take up this proverb against 
the king of Babylon, and say, How hath the oppressor ceased ! 
the golden city ceased ! The Lord hath broken the staff of the 
wicked, and the sceptre of the rulers. He who smote the 
people in wrath with a continual stroke: he that ruled the 
nations in anger, is persecuted, and none hindereth. The whole 
earth is at rest, and is quiet: they break forth into singing. 
Yea, the fir-trees rejoice at thee, and the cedars of Lebanon, 
saying, Since thou art laid down, no feller is come up against 
us. Hell from beneath is moved for thee, to meet thee at thy 
coming ; it stirreth up the dead for thee, even all the chief ones 
of the earth : it hath raised up from their thrones all the kings of 
the nations. All they shall speak, and say unto thee, Art thou 
also become weak as we ? Art thou become like unto us ? Thy 
pomp is brought down to the grave, and the noise of thy viols : 
the worm is spread under thee, and the worms cover thee. 
How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morn- 
ing ! How art thou cut down to the ground, which didst 
weaken the nations ! For thou hast said in thine heart ; I will 
ascend into heaven ; I will exalt my throne above the stars of 
God ; I will sit also upon the mount of the congregation, in the 
sides of the north. I will ascend above the heights of the 
the clouds ; I will be like the Most High. Yet thou shalt be 
brought down to hell, to the sides of the pit. They that see 
thee shall narrowly look upon thee, and consider thee, saying, Is 
this the man that made the earth to tremble, that did shake 
kingdoms ! that made the world as a wilderness, and destroyed 
the cities thereof? that opened not the house of his prisoners ? 
All the kings of the nations, even all of them lie in glory, 
every one in his own house. But thou art cast out of thy grave, 
like an abominable branch : and as the raiment of those that are 
slain, thrust through with a sword, that go down to the stones of 
the pit, as a carcase trodden under feet." This whole passage is 
full of sublimity. Every object is animated ; a variety of per- 
sonages are introduced: we hear the Jews, the fir-trees, and 
cedars of Lebanon, the ghosts of departed kings, the King of 
Babylon himself, and those who look upon his body, all speaking 
in their order, and acting their different parts without confusion. 

* Jer. xlvii. 6, 7. 

p 2 



188 COMPARISON. [LECT. XVII. 



LECTURE XVII. 

COMPARISON, ANTITHESIS, INTERROGATION, EXCLAMATION, 
AND OTHER FIGURES OF SPEECH. 

We are still engaged in the consideration of Figures of 
Speech ; which, as they add much to the beauty of style when 
properly employed, and are at the same time liable to be greatly 
abused, require a careful discussion. As it would be tedious to 
dwell on all the variety of figurative expressions which rheto- 
ricians have enumerated, I chose to select the capital Figures, 
such as occur most frequently, and to make my remarks on 
these ; the principles and rules laid down concerning them will 
sufficiently direct us to the use of the rest, either in prose or 
poetry. Of Metaphor, which is the most common of them all, I 
treated fully ; and in the last Lecture I discoursed of Hyper- 
bole, Personification, and Apostrophe. This Lecture will nearly 
finish what remains on the head of Figures. 

Comparison, or Simile, is what I am to treat of first : a Figure 
frequently employed both by Poets and Prose writers, for the 
ornament of Composition. In a former Lecture, I explained 
fully the difference betwixt this and Metaphor. A Metaphor is 
a Comparison implied, but not expressed as such ; as when I 
say, " Achilles is a Lion," meaning that he resembles one in 
courage or strength. A Comparison is, when the resemblance 
between two objects is expressed in form, and generally pur- 
sued more fully than the nature of a Metaphor admits ; as when 
I say, " The actions of princes are like those great rivers, 
the course of which every one beholds, but their springs have 
been seen by few." This slight instance will show, that a 
happy Comparison is a kind of sparkling ornament, which adds 
not a little lustre and beauty to discourse ; and hence such 
Figures are termed by Cicero, " Orationis lumina." 

The pleasure we take in Comparisons is just and natural. 
We may remark three different sources whence it arises. First, 
from the pleasure which nature has annexed to that act of the 
mind by which we compare any two objects together, trace 
resemblances among those that are different, and difference 
among those that resemble each other; a pleasure, the final 
cause of which is, to prompt us to remark and observe, and 
thereby to make us advance in useful knowledge. This opera- 
tion of the mind is naturally and universally agreeable ; as 
appears from the delight which even children have in comparing 
things together, as soon as they are capable of attending to the 
objects that surround them. Secondly, The pleasure of Com- 
parison arises from the illustration which the Simile employed 
gives to the principal object ; from the clearer view of it which 



LECT. XVII.] COMPARISON. 189 

it presents ; or the more strong impression of it which it stamps 
upon the mind : and, thirdly, it arises from the introduction of a 
new and commonly a splendid object, associated to the principal 
one of which we treat ; and from the agreeable picture which 
that object presents to the fancy; new scenes being thereby 
brought into view, which, without the assistance of this Figure, 
we could not have enjoyed. 

All Comparisons whatever may be reduced under two heads, 
Explaining and Embellishing Comparisons. For when a writer 
likens the object of which he treats to any other thing, it always 
is, or at least always should be, with a view either to make 
us understand that object more distinctly, or to dress it up, and 
adorn it. All manner of subjects admit of Explaining Com- 
parisons. Let an author be reasoning ever so strictly, or treat- 
ing the most abstruse point in philosophy, he may very properly 
introduce a comparison, merely with a view to make his subject 
better understood. Of this nature is the following in Mr. 
Harris's Hermes, employed to explain a very abstract point, the 
distinction between the powers of sense and imagination in the 
human mind. " As wax," says he, " would not be adequate 
to the purpose of signature, if it had not the power to retain as 
well as to receive the impression, the same holds of the soul 
with respect to sense and imagination. Sense is its receptive 
power ; imagination its retentive. Had it sense without imagina- 
tion, it would not be as wax, but as water, where, though all 
impressions be instantly made, yet as soon as they are made 
they are instantly lost." In Comparisons of this nature, the 
understanding is concerned much more than the fancy : and 
therefore the only rules to be observed, with respect to them, 
are, that they be clear, and that they be useful ; that they tend 
to render our conception of the principal object more distinct ; 
and that they do not lead our view aside, and bewilder it with 
any false light. 

But Embellishing Comparisons, introduced not so much with 
a view to inform and instruct, as to adorn the subject of which 
we treat, are those with which we are chiefly concerned at 
present, as Figures of Speech; and those, indeed, which most 
frequently occur. Resemblance, as I before mentioned, is the 
foundation of this figure. We must not, however, take Resem- 
blance, in too strict a sense, for actual similitude and likeness of 
appearance. Two objects may sometimes be very happily com- 
pared to one another, though they resemble each other, strictly 
speaking, in nothing ; only, because they agree in the effects 
which they produce upon the mind ; because they raise a train 
of similar, or, what may be called, concordant ideas ; so that the 
remembrance of the one, when recalled, serves to strengthen the 
impression made by the other. For example, to describe the 
nature of soft and melancholy music, Ossian says, " The music 
of Carryl was, like the memory of joys that are past, pleasant 



190 COMPARISON. [LECT. XVII. 

and mournful to the soul." This is happy and delicate. Yet 
surely, no kind of music has any resemblance to a feeling of the 
mind, such as the memory of past joys. Had it been compared 
to the voice of the nightingale, or the murmur of the stream, as 
it would have been by some ordinary poet, the likeness would 
have been more strict ; but, by founding his Simile upon the 
effect which Carryl's music produced, the Poet, while he con- 
veys a very tender image, gives us, at the same time, a much 
stronger impression of the nature and strain of that music: 
" Like the memory of joys that are past, pleasant and mournful 
to the soul." 

In general, whether Comparisons be founded on the similitude 
of the two objects compared, or on some analogy and agreement 
in their effects, the fundamental requisite of a Comparison is, 
that it shall serve to illustrate the object for the sake of which 
it is introduced, and to give us a stronger conception of it. 
Some little excursions of fancy may be permitted, in pursuing 
the Simile ; but they must never deviate far from the principal 
object. If it be a great and noble one, every circumstance in the 
Comparison must tend to aggrandize it ; if it be a beautiful one 
to render it more amiable ; if terrible, to fill us with more awe. 
But to be a little more particular : The rules to be given con- 
cerning Comparisons, respect chiefly two articles ; the propriety 
of their introduction, and the nature of the objects whence they 
are taken. 

First, the propriety of their introduction. From what has 
been already said of Comparisons, it appears that they are not 
like the figures of which I treated in the last Lecture, the lan- 
guage of strong passion. No ; they are the language of imagi- 
nation rather than of passion ; of an imagination sprightly, in- 
deed, and warmed ; but undisturbed by any violent or agitating 
emotion. Strong passion is too severe to admit this play of 
fancy. It has no leisure to cast about for resembling objects; it 
dwells on that object which has seized and taken possession of 
the soul. It is too much occupied and filled by it, to turn 
its view aside, or to fix its attention on any other thing. An 
author, therefore, can scarcely commit a greater fault, than, 
in the midst of passion, to introduce a Simile. Metaphorical 
expression may be allowable in such a situation ; though even 
this may be carried too far : but the pomp and solemnity of a 
formal Comparison is altogether a stranger to passion. It 
changes the key in a moment; relaxes and brings down the 
mind; and shows us a writer perfectly at his ease, while he 
is personating some other, who is supposed to be under the 
torment of agitation. Our writers of tragedies are very apt 
to err here. In some of Mr. Howe's plays, these flowers of 
Similies have been strewed unseasonably. Mr. Addison's Cato, 
too, is justly censurable in this respect; as, when Portius, just 
after Lucia had bid him farewell for ever, and when he should 



LECT. XVII.] COMPARISON. 191 

naturally have been represented as in the most violent anguish, 
makes his reply in a studied and affected comparison. 

Thus o'er the dying lamp, th' unsteady flame 
Hangs quivering on a point, leaps off" hy fits ; 
And falls again, as loth to quit its hold. 
Thou must not go ; my soul still hovers o'er thee, 
And can't get loose. 

Every one must be sensible, that this is quite remote from the 
language of Nature on such occasions. 

However, as Comparison is not the style of strong passion, so 
neither, when employed for embellishment, is it the language 
of a mind wholly unmoved. It is a figure of dignity, and always 
requires some elevation in the subject, in order to make it 
proper ; for it supposes the imagination to be uncommonly en- 
livened, though the heart be not agitated by passion. In a 
word, the proper place of Comparisons lies in the middle region 
between the highly pathetic, and the very humble style. This 
is a wide field, and gives ample range to the Figure. But even 
this field we must take care not to overstock with it. For, as 
we before said, it is a sparkling ornament, and all things that 
sparkle, dazzle and fatigue, if they recur too often. Similies 
should, even in poetry, be used with moderation ; but, in prose 
writings, much more : otherwise, the style will become dis- 
agreeably florid, and the ornament lose its virtue and effect. 

I proceed, next, to the rules that relate to objects whence 
Comparisons should be drawn; supposing them introduced in 
their proper place. 

In the first place, they must not be drawn from things which 
have too near and obvious a resemblance to the object with 
which we compare them. The great pleasure of the act of com- 
paring lies, in discovering likenesses among things of different 
species, where we would not, at the first glance, expect a resem- 
blance. There is little art or ingenuity in pointing out the 
resemblance of two objects, that are so much akin, or lie so near 
to one another in nature, that every one sees they must be alike. 
When Milton compares Satan's appearance, after his fall, to that 
of the sun suffering an eclipse, and affrighting the nations with 
portentous darkness, we are struck with the happiness and the 
dignity of the similitude. But when he compares Eve's bower 
in Paradise, to the arbour of Pomona; or Eve herself, to a 
Driad, or Wood-nymph ; we receive little entertainment : as 
every one sees, that one arbour must, of course, in several 
respects resemble another arbour, and one beautiful woman 
another beautiful woman. 

- Among Similies faulty through too great obviousness of the 
likeness, we must likewise rank those which are taken from ob- 
jects become trite and familiar in poetical language. Such are 
the Similies of a hero to a lion, of a person in sorrow to a flower 
drooping its head, of violent passion to a tempest, of chastity 
to snow, of virtue to the sun or the stars, and many more of this 



192 COMPARISON. [LECT. XVII. 

kind, with which we are sure to find modern writers, of second- 
rate genius, abounding plentifully; handed down from every 
[ writer of verses to another, as by hereditary right. These com- 
parisons were, at first, perhaps, very proper for the purposes to 
which they are applied. In the ancient original poets, who took 
them directly from nature, not from their predecessors, they add 
beauty. But they are now beaten. Our ears are so accustomed 
to them, that they give no amusement to the fancy. There is, 
indeed, no mark by which we can more readily distinguish a 
poet of true genius, from one of a barren imagination, than 
by the strain of their Comparisons. All who call themselves 
poets affect them: but, whereas a mere versifier copies no new 
images from nature, which appears to his uninventive genius ex- 
hausted by those who have gone before him, and therefore, con- 
tents himself with humbly following their track ; to an author 
of real fancy, nature seems to unlock, spontaneously, her hidden 
stores ; and the eye, " quick glancing from earth to heaven," 
discovers new shapes and forms, new likenesses between objects 
unobserved before, which render his Similies original, expres- 
sive, and lively. 

But, in the second place, as Comparisons ought not to be 
founded on likenesses too obvious, still less ought they to be 
founded on those which are too faint and remote. For these, 
in place of assisting, strain the fancy to comprehend them, 
and throw no light upon the subject. It is also to be observed, 
that a Comparison, which, in the principal circumstances, carries 
a sufficiently near resemblance, may become unnatural and 
obscure, if pushed too far. Nothing is more opposite to the 
design of this Figure, than to hunt after a great number of coin- 
cidences in minute points, merely to show how far the poet's wit 
can stretch the resemblance. This is Mr. Cowley's common 
fault ; whose Comparisons generally run out so far, as to become 
rather a studied exercise of wit, than an illustration of the prin- 
cipal object. We need only open his works, his odes especially, 
to find instances every where. 

In the third place, the object from which a Comparison is 
drawn, should never be an unknown object, or one of which few 
people can form clear ideas: "Ad inferendam rebus lucem," 
says Quinctilian, " repertae sunt sirnilitudines. Praecipue, igitur, 
est custodiendum ne id quod similitudinis gratia ascivimus, aut 
obscurum sit, aut ignotum. Debet enim id quod illustrandae 
alterius rei gratia assumitur, ipsum esse clarius eo quod illumi- 
natur." * Comparisons, therefore, founded on philosophical 
discoveries, or on anything with which persons of a certain trade 
only, or a certain profession are conversant, attain not their 

* " Comparisons have been introduced into discourse for the sake of throwing light 
on the subject. We must, therefore, be much on our guard, not to employ, as the 
ground of our Simile, any object which is either obscure or unknown. That, surely, 
which is used for the purpose of illustrating some other thing, ought to be more obvious 
and plain than the thing intended to be illustrated." 



LECT. XVII.] ANTITHESIS. 193 

proper effect. They should be taken from those illustrious, 
noted objects, which most of the readers have seen, or can 
strongly conceive. This leads me to remark a fault of which 
modern poets are very apt to be guilty. The ancients took their 
Similies from that face of nature, and that class of objects, with 
which they and their readers were acquainted. Hence lions, 
and wolves, and serpents, were fruitful, and very proper sources 
of Similies amongst them ; and these having become a sort of 
consecrated, classical images, are very commonly adopted by the 
moderns : injudiciously however, for the propriety of them is 
now in a great measure lost. It is only at second hand, and by 
description, that we are acquainted with many of those objects ; 
and to most readers of poetry, it were more to the purpose, to 
describe lions, or serpents, by Similies taken from men, than to 
describe men by lions. Now-a-days, we can more easily form 
the conception of a fierce combat between two men, than between 
a bull and a tiger. Every country has a scenery peculiar to 
itself; and the imagery of every good poet will exhibit it. The 
introduction of unknown objects, or of a foreign scenery, betrays 
a poet copying, not after nature, but from other writers. I have 
only to observe further, 

In the fourth place, that, in compositions of a serious or elevated 
kind, Similies should never be taken from low or mean objects. 
These are degrading ; whereas, Similies are commonly intended 
to embellish, and to dignify ; and therefore, unless in burlesque 
writings, or where Similies are introduced purposely to vilify 
and diminish an object, mean ideas should never be presented to 
us. Some of Homer's Comparisons have been taxed without 
reason, on this account. For it is to be remembered, that the 
meanness or dignity of objects depends, in a great degree, on the 
ideas and manners of the age wherein we live. Many Similies, 
therefore, drawn from the incidents of rural life, which appear 
low to us, had abundance of dignity in those simpler ages of 
antiquity. 

I have now considered such of the Figures of Speech as 
seemed most to merit a full and particular discussion : Meta- 
phor, Hyperbole, Personification, Apostrophe, and Comparison. 
A few more yet remain to be mentioned ; the proper use and 
conduct of which will be easily understood from the principles 
already laid down. 

As Comparison is founded on the resemblance, so Antithesis 
on the contrast or opposition of two objects. Contrast has always 
this effect, to make each of the contrasted objects appear in the 
stronger light. White, for instance, never appears so bright as 
when it is opposed to black ; and when both are viewed together. 
Antithesis, therefore, may, on many occasions, be employed to 
advantage, in order to strengthen the impression which we 
intend that any object should make. Thus Cicero, in his oration 
for Milo, representing the improbability of Milo's forming a 



y 



4 »<**-. 6«^v l] 

194 ANTITHESIS. [LECT. XVII. 

design to take away the life of Clodius, at a time when all cir- 
cumstances were unfavourable to such a design, and after he had 
let other opportunities slip, when he could have executed the 
same design, if he had formed it, with much more ease and safety, 
heightens our conviction of this improbability by a skilful use 
of this Figure : " Quern igitur cum omnium gratia interficere 
noluit, hunc voluit cum aliquorum querela ? Quern jure, quern 
loco, quern tempore, quem impune, non est ausus, hunc injuria, 
iniquo loco, alieno, tempore, periculo capitis, non dubitavit 
occidere ? " * In order to render an Antithesis more com- 
plete, it is always of advantage, that the words and members 
of the sentence expressing the contrasted objects be, as in this 
instance of Cicero's, similarly constructed, and made to corres- 
pond to each other. This leads us to remark the contrast more, 
by setting the things which we oppose more clearly over against 
each other ; in the same manner as when we contrast a black 
and a white object, in order to perceive the full difference of 
their colour, we would choose to have both objects of the same 
bulk, and placed in the same light. Their resemblance to each 
other, in certain circumstances, makes their disagreement in 
others more palpable. 

At the same time, I must observe, that the frequent use of 
Antithesis, especially where the opposition in the words is nice 
and quaint, is apt to render style disagreeable. Such a sentence 
as the following, from Seneca, does very well, where it stands 
alone : " Si quem volueris esse divitem, non est quod augeas 
divitias, sed minuas cupiditates." f Or this : " Si ad naturam 
vives, nunquam eris pauper ; si ad opinionem, nunquam dives." J 
A maxim, or moral saying, properly enough receives this form ; 
both because it is supposed to be the fruit of meditation, and 
because it is designed to be engraven on the memory, which 
recalls it more easily by the help of such contrasted expressions. 
But where a string of such sentences succeed each other ; where 
this becomes an author's favourite and prevailing manner of 
expressing himself, his style is faulty; and it is upon this 
account Seneca has been often and justly censured. Such a 
style appears too studied and laboured ; it gives us the impression 
of an author attending more to his manner of saying things, than 
to the things themselves which he says. Dr. Young, though a 
writer of real genius, was too fond of Antithesis. In his Estimate 
of Human Life, we find whole passages that run in such a strain 

* " Is it credible that, when he declined putting Clodius to death with the consent of 
all, he would choose to do it with the disapprobation of many ? Can you believe that 
the person whom he scrupled to slay, when he might have done so with full justice, in a 
convenient place, at a proper time, with secure impunity, he made no scruple to murder 
against justice, in an unfavourable place, at an unseasonable time, and at the risk of 
capital condemnation ? " 

t " If you seek to make one rich, study not to increase his stores, but to diminish his 
desires." 

X " If you regulate your desires according to the standard of nature, you will never 
he poor ; if, according to the standard of opinion, you will never he rich." 



LECT. XVII.] INTERROGATION. 195 

as this: "The peasant complains aloud; the courtier in secret 
repines. In want, what distress ; in affluence, what satiety ? 
The great are under as much difficulty to expend with pleasure, 
as the mean to labour with success. The ignorant, through ill- 
grounded hope, are disappointed ; the knowing, through know- 
ledge, despond. Ignorance occasions mistake; mistake disap- 
pointment ; and disappointment is misery. Knowledge, on the 
other hand, gives true judgment ; and true judgment of human 
things, gives a demonstration of their insufficiency to our peace." 
There is too much glitter in such a style as this to please long. 
We are fatigued, by attending to such quaint and artificial sen- 
tences often repeated. 

There is another sort of Antithesis, the beauty of which con- 
sists in surprising us by the unexpected contrast of things which 
it brings together. Much wit may be shown in this ; but it 
belongs wholly to pieces of professed wit and humour, and can 
find no place in grave compositions. Mr. Pope, who is remark- 
ably fond of Antithesis, is often happy in this use of the Figure. 
So, in his Rape of the Lock : 

Whether the nymph shall hreak Diana's law. 

Or some frail China jar receive a flaw ; 

Or stain her honour or her new hrocade ; 

Forget her prayers, or miss a masquerade ; 

Or lose her heart, or necklace at a hall ; 

Or whether heaven has doomed that Shock must fall. 

What is called the point of an epigram, consists, for most part, 
in some Antithesis of this kind; surprising us with the smart 
and unexpected turn which it gives to the thought ; and in the 
fewer words it is brought out, it is always the happier. 

Comparisons and Antithesis are Figures of a cool nature ; the 
productions of imagination, not of passion. Interrogations and 
Exclamations, of which I am next to speak, are passionate 
Figures. They are, indeed, on so many occasions, the native 
language of passion, that their use is extremely frequent ; and, 
in ordinary conversation, when men are heated, they prevail as 
much as in the most sublime oratory. The unfigured, literal 
use of Interrogation, is, to ask a question ; but when men are 
prompted by passion, whatever they would affirm, or deny, with 
great vehemence, they naturally put in the form of a question ; 
expressing thereby the strongest confidence of the truth of their 
own sentiment, and appealing to their hearers for the impossi- 
bility of the contrary. Thus, in Scripture : " God is not a man, 
that he should lie ; neither the son of man, that he should repent. 
Hath he said it ? and shall he not do it ? Hath he spoken it ? 
and shall he not make it good ? " * So Demosthenes, addressing 
himself to the Athenians : " Tell me, will you still go about and 
ask one another what news ? What can be more astonishing 

* Numbers, chap, xxiii. ver, 19. 



196 EXCLAMATION. [LECT. XVII. 

news than this, that the man of Macedon makes war upon the 
Athenians, and disposes of the affairs of Greece? — Is Philip 
dead ? No, but he is sick. What signifies it to you whether he 
be dead or alive ? For, if anything happens to this Philip, you 
will immediately raise up another." All this delivered without 
interrogation, had been faint and ineffectual ; but the warmth 
and eagerness which this questioning method expresses, awakens 
the hearers, and strikes them with much greater force. 

Interrogations may often be employed with propriety, in the 
course of no higher emotions than naturally arise in pursuing 
some close and earnest reasoning. But Exclamations belong 
only to stronger emotions of the mind ; to surprise, admiration, 
anger, joy, grief, and the like : 

Heu pietas ! heu prisca fides ! invictaque bello 
Dextra ! 

Both Interrogation and Exclamation, and indeed, all passionate 
Figures of Speeeh, operate upon us by means of sympathy. 
Sympathy is a very powerful and extensive principle in our 
nature, disposing us to enter into every feeling and passion, 
which we behold expressed by others. Hence, a single person 
coming into company with strong marks, either of melancholy or 
joy, upon his countenance, will diffuse that passion, in a moment, 
through the whole circle. Hence, in a great crowd, passions are 
so easily caught, and so fast spread, by that powerful contagion 
which the animated looks, cries, and gestures of a multitude 
never fail to carry. Now, Interrogations and Exclamations, 
being natural signs of a moved and agitated mind, always, when 
they are properly used, dispose us to sympathise with the dispo- 
sitions of those who use them, and to feel as they feel. 

From this it follows, that the great rule with regard to the 
conduct of such Figures is, that the writer attend to the manner 
in which nature dictates to us to express any emotion or passion, 
and that he give his language that turn, and no other ; above 
all, that he never affect the style of a passion which he does not 
feel. With Interrogations he may use a good deal of freedom ; 
these, as above observed, falling in so much with the ordinary 
course of language and reasoning, even when no great vehemence 
is supposed to have place in the mind. But, with respect to 
Exclamations, he must be more reserved. Nothing has a worse 
effect than the frequent and unseasonable use of them. Raw, 
juvenile writers imagine, that, by pouring them forth often, they 
render their compositions warm and animated. Whereas quite 
the contrary follows. They render it frigid to excess. When 
an author is always calling upon us to enter into transports which 
he has said nothing to inspire, we are both disgusted and enraged 
at him. He raises no sympathy, for he gives us no passion of 
his own, in which we can take part. He gives us words, and 
not passion ; and, of course, can raise no passion, unless that of 



LECT. XVII.] VISION. 197 



indignation. Hence I am inclined to think, he was not nrmh 
mistaken, who said, that when, on looking into a book, he found 
the pages thick bespangled with the point which is called, 
" Punctum admirationis," he judged this to be a sufficient reason 
for his laying it aside. And indeed were it not for the help of 
this " punctum admirationis," with which many writers of this 
rapturous kind so much abound, one would be often at a loss to 
discover, whether or not it was Exclamation which they aimed at. 
For, it has now become a fashion, among these writers, to sub- 
join points of admiration to sentences, which contain nothing but 
simple affirmations, or propositions ; as if, by an affected method 
of pointing, they could transform them in the reader's mind into 
high Figures of eloquence. Much akin to this, is another con- 
trivance practised by some writers, of separating almost all the 
members of their sentences from each other, by blank lines ; as 
if, by setting them thus asunder, they bestowed some special im- 
portance upon them ; and required us, in going along, to make 
pause at every other word, and weigh it well. This, I think, 
may be called a Typographical Figure of Speech. Neither, 
indeed, since we have been led to mention the arts of writers for 
increasing the importance of their words, does another custom, 
which prevailed very much some time ago, seem worthy of imi- 
tation ; I mean that of distinguishing the significant words, in 
every sentence, by Italic characters. On some occasions, it is 
very proper to use such distinctions. But when we carry them 
so far, as to mark with them every supposed emphatical word, 
these words are apt to multiply so fast in the author's imagina- 
tion, that every page is crowded with Italics, which can produce 
no effect whatever, but to hurt the eye, and create confusion. 
Indeed, if the sense point not out the most emphatical expres- 
sions, a variation in the type, especially when occurring so fre- 
quently, will give small aid. And accordingly, the most masterly 
writers of late, have, with good reason, laid aside all those feeble 
props of significancy, and trusted wholly to the weight of their 
sentiments for commanding attention. But to return from this 
digression : 

Another Figure of Speech proper only to animated and warm 
composition, is what some critical writers call Vision ; when, in 
place of relating something that is past, we use the present tense, 
and describe it as actually passing before our eyes. Thus Cicero, 
in his fourth oration against Catiline : " Videor enim mihi hanc 
urbem videre, lucem orbis terrarum atque arcem omnium gentium, 
subito uno incendio concidentem ; cerno animo sepulta in patria 
miseros atque insepultos acervos civium; versatur mihi ante 
oculos aspectus Cethegi, et furor, in vestra caede bacchantis." * 

* " I seem to myself to behold this city, the ornament of the earth, and the capital of 
all nations, suddenly involved in one conflagration. I see before me the slaughtered 
heaps of citizens lying unburied in the midst of their ruined country. The furious 
countenance of Cethegus rises to my view, while with a savage joy he is triumphing in 
your miseries." 



198 AMPLIFICATION. [lECT. XVII. 

This manner of description supposes a sort of enthusiasm, which 
carries the person who describes, in some measure, out of him- 
self; and, when well executed, must needs impress the reader 
or hearer strongly, by the force of that sympathy which I have 
before explained. But, in order to a successful excecution, it 
requires an uncommonly warm imagination, and such a happy 
selection of circumstances, as shall make us think we see before 
our eyes the scene that is described. Otherwise it shares the 
same fate with all feeble attempts towards passionate figures ; 
that of throwing ridicule upon the author, and leaving the reader 
more cool and uninterested than he was before. The same 
observations are to be applied to repetition, suspension, correc- 
tion, and many more of those figurative forms of speech, which 
rhetoricians have enumerated among the beauties of eloquence. 
They are beautiful, or not, exactly in proportion as they are 
native expressions of the sentiment or passion intended to be 
heightened by them. Let nature and passion always speak their 
own language, and they will suggest figures in abundance. But, 
when we seek to counterfeit a warmth which we do not feel, no 
figures will either supply the defect, or conceal the imposture. 

There is one figure (and I shall mention no more) of frequent 
use among all public speakers, particularly at the bar, which 
Quinctillian insists upon considerably, and calls Amplification. 
It consists in an artful exaggeration of all the circumstances of 
some object or action which we want to place in a strong light, 
either a good or a bad one. It is not so properly one figure, as 
the skilful management of several which we make to tend to one 
point. It may be carried on by a proper use of magnifying or 
extenuating terms, by a regular enumeration of particulars, or 
by throwing together, as into one mass, a crowd of circumstances ; 
by suggesting comparisons also with things of a like nature. But 
the principal instrument by which it works, is by a climax, or a 
gradual rise of one circumstance above another, till our idea be 
raised to the utmost. I spoke formerly of a Climax in sound ; a 
' Climax in sense, when well carried on, is a figure which never 
fails to amplify strongly. The common example of this is, that 
noted passage in Cicero, which every school-boy knows : " Faci- 
nus est vincere civem Romanum ; scelus verberare ; prope parri- 
cidium, necare; quid dicam in crucem tollere?"* I shall give 
an instance from a printed pleading of a famous Scotch lawyer, 
Sir George M'Kenzie. It is in a charge to the jury, in the case 
of a woman accused of murdering her own child. " Gentlemen, 
if one man had any how slain another, if an adversary had killed 
his opposer, or a woman occasioned the death of her enemy, even 
these criminals would have been capitally punished by the Cor- 



* " It is a crime to put a Roman citizen in bonds ; it is the height of guilt to scourge 
him; little less than parricide to put him to death j what name then shall I give to 
crucifying him V* 



LECT. XVIII.] FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 199 

nelian law: but, if this guiltless infant, who could make no 
enemy, had been murdered by its own nurse, what punishments 
would not then the mother have demanded ? With what cries 
and exclamations would she have stunned your ears? What 
shall we say, then, when a woman guilty of homicide, a mother, 
of the murder of her innocent child, hath comprised all those 
misdeeds in one single crime ; a crime in its own nature detest- 
able ; in a woman, prodigious ; in a mother, incredible ; and 
perpetrated against one whose age called for compassion, whose 
near relation claimed affection, and whose innocence deserved 
the highest favour?" I must take notice, however, that such 
regular climaxes as these, though they have considerable beauty, 
have, at the same time, no small appearance of art and study ; 
and, therefore, though they may be admitted into formal 
harangues, yet they speak not the language of great earnestness 
and passion, which seldom proceed by steps so regular. Nor, 
indeed, for the purposes of effectual persuasion, are they likely 
to be so successful, as an arrangement of circumstances in a less 
artificial order. For, when much art appears, we are always put 
on our guard against the deceits of eloquence ; but when a 
speaker has reasoned strongly, and, by force of argument, has 
made good his main point, he may then, taking advantage of the 
favourable bent of our minds, make use of such artificial figures 
to confirm our belief, and to warm our minds. 



LECTURE XVIII. 

FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE, — GENERAL CHARACTERS OF STYLE, 

— DIFFUSE, CONCISE FEEBLE, NERVOUS DRY, 

PLAIN, NEAT, ELEGANT, FLOWERY. 

Having treated, at considerable length, of the Figures of 
Speech, of their origin, of their nature, and of the management 
of such of them as are important enough to require a particular 
discussion, before finally dismissing this subject, I think it incum- 
bent on me to make some observations concerning the proper 
use of Figurative language in general. These, indeed, I have, 
in part, already anticipated. But, as great errors are often 
committed in this part of Style, especially by young writers, it 
may be of use that I bring together, under one view, the most 
material directions on this head. 

I begin with repeating an observation, formerly made, that 
neither all the beauties, nor even the chief beauties of composi- 
tion, depend upon Tropes and Figures. Some of the most 
sublime and most pathetic passages of the most admired authors, 



200 FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. [LECT. XVIII. 

both in prose and poetry, are expressed in the most simple style, 
without any Figure at all; instances of which I have before 
given. On the other hand, a composition may abound with these 
studied ornaments ; the language may be artful, splendid, and 
highly figured, and yet the composition be, on the whole, frigid 
and unaffecting. Not to speak of sentiment and thought, which 
constitute the real and lasting merit of any work, if the Style 
be stiff and affected, if it be deficient in perspicuity or precision, 
or in ease and neatness, all the Figures that can be employed 
will never render it agreeable ; they may dazzle a vulgar, but 
will never please a judicious eye. 

In the second place, Figures, in order to be beautiful, must 
always rise naturally from the subject. I have shown that all 
of them are the language either of Imagination, or of Passion ; 
some of them suggested by Imagination, when it is awakened 
and sprightly, such as Metaphors and Comparisons ; others by 
Passion or more heated emotion, such as Personifications and 
Apostrophes. Of course they are beautiful then only, when 
they are prompted by fancy, or by passion. They must rise of 
their own accord ; they must flow from a mind warmed by the 
object which it seeks to describe ; we should never interrupt the 
course of thought, to cast about for Figures. If they be sought 
after coolly, and fastened on as designed ornaments, they will 
have a miserable effect. It is a very erroneous idea, which many 
have of the ornaments of Style, as if they were things detached 
from the subject, and that could be stuck to it like lace upon a 
coat : this is, indeed, 

Purpureus late qui splendeat unus aut alter 

Assuitur pannus.* Ars Poet. 

And it is this false idea which has often brought attention to the 
beauties of writing into disrepute. Whereas the real and pro- 
per ornaments of Style arise from Sentiment. They flow in the 
same stream with the current of thought. A writer of genius 
conceives his subject strongly; his imagination is filled and 
impressed with it ; and pours itself forth in that figurative 
language which Imagination naturally speaks. He puts on no 
emotion which his subject does not raise in him ; he speaks as 
he feels ; but his style will be beautiful, because his feelings are 
lively. On occasions, when fancy is languid, or finds nothing to 
rouse it, we should never attempt to hunt for Figures. We 
then work, as it is said, " invita Minerva ; " supposing Figures 
invented, they will have the appearance of being forced ; and in 
this case, they had much better be omitted. 

In the third place, even when imagination prompts, and the 
subject naturally gives rise to Figures, they must, however, not 

* " Shreds of purple with broad lustre shine, 

Sewed on your poem." Francis. 



LECT. XVIII.] FIGUKATIVE LANGUAGE. 201 

be employed too frequently. In all beauty, "simplex munditiis" 
is a capital quality. Nothing derogates more from the weight 
and dignity of any composition, than too great attention to orna- 
ment. When the ornaments cost labour, that labour always 
appears ; though they should cost us none, still the reader or 
hearer may be surfeited with them ; and when they come too 
thick, they give the impression of a light and frothy genius, that 
evaporates in show, rather than brings forth what is solid. The 
directions of the ancient critics, on this head, are full of good 
sense, and deserve careful attention. " Voluptatibus maximis," 
says Cicero, de Orat. L. iii. "fastidium finitiroum est in rebus 
omnibus ; quo hoc minus in oratione miremur. In qua vel ex 
poetis, vel oratoribus possumus judicare, concinnam, ornatam, 
festivam sine intermissione, quamvis claris sit coloribus picta, 
vel poesis, vel oratio, non posse in delectatione esse diuturna. 
Quare, bene et prseclare, quamvis nobis ssepe dicatur, belle et 
festive nimium ssepe nolo." # To the same purpose, are the 
excellent directions with which Quinctilian concludes his dis- 
course concerning Figures, L. ix. C. 3. " Ego illud de iis figuris 
quas verae fiunt, adjiciam breviter, sicut ornant orationem oppor- 
tunae positae, ita ineptissimas esse cum immodice petuntur. 
Sunt, qui neglecto rerum pondere et viribus sententiarum, si 
vel inania verba in hos modos depravarunt, summos se judicant 
artifices ; ideoque non desinunt eas nectere ; quas sine sententia 
sectare, tarn est ridiculum quam quaerere habitum gestumque 
sine corpore. Ne hae quidem quae rectae fiunt, densandae sunt 
nimis. Sciendum imprimis quid quisque postulet locus, quid 
persona, quid tempus. Major enim pars harum figurarum posita 
est in delectatione. Ubi vero, atrocitate invidia, miseratione 
pugnandum est ; quis ferat verbis contrapositis, et consimilibus, 
et pariter cadentibus, irascentem, flentem, rogantem ? Cum in 
his rebus, cura verborum deroget affectibus fidem ; et ubicunque 
ars ostentatur, Veritas abesse videatur."f After these judicious 

* " In all human things disgust borders so nearly on the most lively pleasures, that 
we need not be surprised to find this hold in eloquence. From reading either poets or 
orators, we may easily satisfy ourselves, that neither a poem nor an oration, which, 
without intermission, is showy and sparkling, can please us Jong. Wherefore, though 
we may wish for the frequent praise of having expressed ourselves well and properly, we 
should not covet repeated applause, for being bright and splendid." 

f " I must add concerning those figures which are proper in themselves, that, as they 
beautify a composition when they are seasonably introduced, so they deform it greatly 
if too frequently sought after. There are some, who, neglecting strength of sentiment 
and weight of matter, if they can only force their empty words into a Figurative Style, 
imagine themselves great writers ; and therefore continually string together such orna- 
ments ; which is just as ridiculous, where there is no sentiment to support them, as to 
contrive gestures and dresses for what wants a body. Even those Figures which a 
subject admits, must not come too thick. We must begin with considering what the 
occasion, the time, and the person who speaks, render proper. For the object aimed at 
by the greater part of these Figures is entertainment. But when the subject becomes 
deeply serious, and strong passions are to be moved, who can bear the orator, who, in 
affected language and balanced phrases, endeavours to express wrath, commiseration, or 
earnest entreaty ? On all such occasions, a solicitous attention to words weakens 
passion; and when so much art is shown, there is suspected to be little sincerity." 

Q 



202 CHARACTERS OF STYLE. [LECT. XVIII. 

and useful observations, I Tiave no more to add on this subject, 
except this admonition. 

In the fourth place, that without a genius for Figurative 
Language, none should attempt it. Imagination is a power not 
to be acquired; it must be derived from nature. Its redun- 
dancies we may prune, its deviations we may correct, its sphere 
we may enlarge ; but the faculty itself we cannot create ; and 
all efforts towards a metaphorical ornamented Style, if we are 
destitute of the proper genius for it, will prove awkward and 
disgusting. Let us satisfy ourselves, however, by considering 
that without this talent, or at least with a very small measure of 
it, we may both write and speak to advantage. Good sense, 
clear ideas, perspicuity of language, and proper arrangement of 
words and thoughts, will always command attention. These 
are, indeed, the foundations of all solid merit, both in speaking 
and writing. Many subjects require nothing more : and those 
which admit of ornament, admit it only as a secondary requisite. 
To study and to know our own genius well ; to follow nature ; 
to seek to improve, but not to force it; are directions which 
cannot be too often given to those who desire to excel in the 
liberal arts. 

When I entered on the consideration of Style, I observed that 
words being the copies of our ideas, there must always be a very 
intimate connexion between the manner in which every writer 
employs words, and his manner of thinking ; and that, from the 
peculiarity of thought and expression which belongs to him, 
there is a certain Character imprinted on his Style, which may 
be denominated his manner ; commonly expressed by such gene- 
ral terms, as, strong, weak, dry, simple, affected, or the like. 
These distinctions carry, in general, some reference to an 
author's manner of thinking, but refer chiefly to his mode of 
expression. They arise from the whole tenor of his language ; 
and comprehend the effect produced by all those parts of Style 
which we have already considered ; the choice which he makes 
of single words ; his arrangement of these in sentences ; the 
degree of his precision; and his embellishment, by means of 
musical cadence, figures, or other arts of speech. Of such 
general Characters of Style, therefore, it remains now to speak, 
as the result of those underparts of which I have hitherto 
treated. 

That different subjects require to be treated of in different 
sorts of Style, is a position so obvious, that I shall not stay to 
illustrate it. Every one sees that Treatises of Philosophy, for 
instance, ought not to be composed in the same style with 
Orations. Every one sees also, that different parts of the same 
composition require a variation in the style and manner. In a 
Sermon, for instance, or any harangue, the application or per- 
oration admits more ornament, and requires more warmth, than 
the didactic part. But what I mean at present to remark is, 



LECT. XVIII.] CHARACTEKS OF STYLE. 203 

that, amidst this variety, we still expect to find, in the compo- 
sitions of any one man, some degree of uniformity or consistency 
with himself in manner ; we expect to find some predomi- 
nant Character of Style impressed on all his writings, which 
shall be suited to, and shall mark, his particular genius and turn 
of mind. The orations in Livy differ much in Style, as they 
ought to do, from the rest of his history. The same is the case 
with those in Tacitus. Yet both in Livy's Orations, and in 
those of Tacitus, we are able clearly to trace the distinguishing 
manner of each historian ; the magnificent fulness of the one, 
and the sententious conciseness of the other. The "Lettres 
Persanes," and " L'Esprit de Loix," are the works of the same 
author. They required very different composition surely, and 
accordingly they differ widely ; yet still we see the same hand. 
Wherever there is real and native genius, it gives a determina- 
tion to one kind of Style rather than another. Where nothing 
of this appears, where there is no marked nor peculiar character 
in the compositions of any author, we are apt to infer, not 
without reason, that he is a vulgar and trivial author, who 
writes from imitation, and not from the impulse of original 
genius. As the most celebrated painters are known by their 
hand, so the best and most original writers are known and distin- 
guished, throughout all their works, by their Style and peculiar 
manner. This will be found to hold almost without exception. 

The ancient Critics attended to these General Characters of 
Style which we are now to consider. Dionysius of Halicar- 
nassus divides them into three kinds, and calls them the Austere, 
the Florid, and the Middle. By the Austere, he means a style 
distinguished for streugth and firmness, with a neglect of smooth- 
ness and ornament ; for examples of which, he gives Pindar and 
^Eschylus among the Poets, and Thucydides among the Prose 
writers. By the Florid, he means, as the name indicates, a 
style ornamented, flowing, and sweet ; resting more upon num- 
bers and grace than strength; he instances Hesiod, Sappho, 
Anacreon, Euripides, and principally Isocrates. The Middle 
kind is the just mean between these, and comprehends the 
beauties of both : in which class he places Homer and Sopho- 
cles among the Poets; in Prose, Herodotus, Demosthenes, Plato, 
and (what seems strange) Aristotle. This must be a very wide 
class, indeed, which comprehends Plato and Aristotle under one 
article as to style.* Cicero and Quinctilian make also a three- 
fold division of style, though with respect to different qualities 
of it ; in which they are followed by most of the modern writers 
on Rhetoric ; the Simplex, Tenue, or Subtile ; the Grave or 
Vehemens ; and the Medium, or te?nperatum genus dicendi. But 
these divisions, and the illustrations they give of them, are so 
loose and general, that they cannot advance us much in our 

* De Compositione Verborum, cap. 25, 
Q 2 



204 CONCISE AND [LECT. XVTTI. 

ideas of Style. I shall endeavour to be a little more particular 
in what I have to say on this subject. 

One of the first and most obvious distinctions of the different 
kinds of style, is what arises from an author's spreading out his 
thoughts more or less. This distinction forms, what are called, 
the Diffuse and the Concise Styles. A concise writer com- 
presses his thoughts into the fewest possible words ; he seeks to 
employ none but such as are most expressive ; he lops off, as 
redundant, every expression which does not add something 
material to the sense. Ornament he does not reject ; he may be 
lively and figured ; but his ornament is intended for the sake of 
force rather than grace. He never gives you the same thought 
twice. He places it in the light which appears to him the most 
striking ; but if you do not apprehend it well in that light, you 
need not expect to find it in any other. His sentences are 
arranged with compactness and strength, rather than with 
cadence and harmony. The utmost precision is studied in them; 
and they are commonly designed to suggest more to the reader's 
imagination than they directly express. 

A diffuse writer unfolds his thought fully. He places it in a 
variety of lights, and gives the reader every possible assistance 
for understanding it completely. He is not very careful to 
express it at first in its full strength, because he is to repeat the 
impression ; and what he wants in strength he proposes to 
supply by copiousness. Writers of this character generally love 
magnificence and amplification. Their periods naturally run out 
into some length, and having room for ornament of every kind, 
they admit it freely. 

Each of these manners has its peculiar advantages ; and each 
becomes faulty when carried to the extreme. The extreme of 
conciseness becomes abrupt and obscure ; it is apt also to lead, 
into a style too pointed, and bordering on the epigrammatic. 
The extreme of diffuseness becomes weak and languid, and tires 
the reader. However, to one or other of these two manners, a 
writer may lean according as his genius prompts him : and under 
the general character of a concise, or of a more open and diffuse 
style, may possess much beauty in his composition. 

For illustrations of these general characters, I can only refer 
to the writers who are examples of them. It is not so much 
from detached passages, such as I was wont formerly to quote 
for instances, as from the current of an author's Style, that we 
are to collect the idea of a formed manner of writing. The two 
most remarkable examples that I know of conciseness carried as 
far as propriety will allow, perhaps in some cases farther, are 
Tacitus the Historian, and the President Montesquieu in 
" L'Esprit de Loix." Aristotle, too, holds an eminent rank among 
didactic writers for his brevity. Perhaps no writer in the world 
was ever so frugal of his words as Aristotle ; but this frugality 
of expression frequently darkens his meaning. Of a beautiful 



LECT. XVIII.] DIFFUSE STYLE. 205 

and magnificent diffuseness, Cicero is, beyond doubt, the most 
illustrious instance that can be given. Addison also, and Sir 
William Temple, come in some degree under this class. 

In judging when it is proper to lean to the concise, and when 
to the diffuse manner, we must be directed by the nature of the 
Composition. Discourses that are to be spoken require a more 
copious Style than books that are to be read. When the whole 
meaning must be catched from the mouth of the speaker, with- 
out the advantage which books afford of pausing at pleasure, 
and reviewing what appears obscure, great conciseness is always 
to be avoided. We should never presume too much on the 
quickness of our hearer's understanding ; but our Style ought to 
be such, that the bulk of men can go along with us easily, and 
without effort. A flowing copious Style, therefore is required in 
all public speakers ; guarding, at the same time, against such a 
degree of diffusion as renders them languid and tiresome ; which 
will always prove the case, when they inculcate too much, and 
present the same thought under too many different views. 

In written Compositions, a certain degree of conciseness 
possesses great advantages. It is more lively ; keeps up atten- 
tion ; makes a brisker and stronger impression ; and gratifies the 
mind by supplying more exercise to a reader's own thought. A 
sentiment, which, expressed diffusely, will barely be admitted to 
be just; expressed concisely, will be admired as spirited. De- 
scription, when we want to have it vivid and animated, should be 
in a concise strain. This is different from the common opinion ; 
most persons being ready to suppose, that upon Description a 
writer may dwell more safely than upon other things, and that, 
by a full and extended Style, it is rendered more rich and 
expressive. I apprehend, on the contrary, that a diffuse manner 
generally weakens it. Any redundant words or circumstances 
encumber the fancy, and make the object we present to it, 
appear confused and indistinct. Accordingly, the most masterly 
describers, Homer, Tacitus, Milton, are almost always concise in 
their descriptions. They show us more of an object at one 
glance, than a feeble diffuse writer can show, by turning it 
round and round in a variety of lights. The strength and 
vivacity of description, whether in prose or poetry, depend much 
more upon the happy choice of one or two striking circumstances, 
than upon the multiplication of them. 

Addresses to the passions, likewise, ought to be in the concise, 
rather than the diffuse manner. In these, it is dangerous to be 
diffuse, because it is very difficult to support proper warmth for 
any length of time. When we become prolix, we are always in 
hazard of cooling the reader. The heart, too, and the fancy, 
run fast ; and if once we can put them in motion, they supply 
many particulars to greater advantage than an author can display 
them. The case is different, when we address ourselves to the 
understanding: as in all matters of reasoning, explication, and 



206 CONCISE AND * [LECT. XVIII. 

instruction. There I would prefer a more free and diffuse 
manner. When you are to strike the fancy, or to move the 
heart, be concise ; when you are to inform the understanding, 
which moves more slowly, and requires the assistance of a guide, 
it is better to be full. Historical narration may be beautiful, 
either in a concise or a diffuse manner, according to the writer's 
genius. Livy and Herodotus are diffuse; Thucydides and 
Sallust are succinct ; yet all of them are agreeable. 

I observed that a diffuse style generally abounds in long 
periods; and a concise writer, it is certain, will often employ 
short sentences. It is not, however, to be inferred from this, 
that long or short sentences are fully characteristical of the one 
or the other manner. It is very possible for one to compose 
always in short sentences, and to be withal extremely diffuse, if 
a small measure of sentiment be spread through many of these 
sentences. Seneca is a remarkable example. By the shortness 
and quaintness of his sentences, he may appear at first view very 
concise ; yet he is far from being so. He transfigures the same 
thought into many different forms. He makes it pass for a new 
one, only by giving it a new turn. So also, most of the French 
writers compose in short sentences ; though their Style, in 
general, is not concise; commonly less so than the bulk of 
English writers, whose sentences are much longer. A French 
author breaks down into two or three sentences, that portion of 
thought which an English author crowds into one. The direct 
effect of short sentences is to render the Style brisk and lively, 
but not always concise. By the quick successive impulses which 
they make on the mind, they keep it awake ; and give to Com- 
position more of a spirited character. Long periods, like Lord 
Clarendon's, are grave and stately ; but, like all grave things, 
they are in hazard of becoming dull. An intermixture of both 
long and short ones is requisite, when we would support 
solemnity, together with vivacity ; leaning more to the one or 
the other, according as propriety requires that the solemn or the 
sprightly should be predominant in our composition. But of 
long and short sentences, I had occasion, formerly, to treat, under 
the head of the Construction of Periods. 

The Nervous and the Feeble are generally held to be cha-' 
racters of Style, of the same import with the Concise and the 
Diffuse. They do indeed very often coincide. Diffuse writers 
have for the most part, some degree of feebleness ,- and nervous 
writers will generally be inclined to a concise expression. This, 
however, does not always hold; and there are instances of 
writers, who, in the midst of a full and ample Style, have main- 
tained a great degree of strength. Livy is an example ; and, in 
the English Language, Dr. Barrow. Barrow's Style has many 
faults. It is unequal, incorrect, and redundant, but withal, for 
force and expressiveness, uncommonly distinguished. On every 
subject, he multiplies words with an overflowing copiousness ; 



LECT. XVIII.] • DIFFUSE STYLE. 207 

but it is always a torrent of strong ideas and significant expres- 
sions which he pours forth. Indeed, the foundations of a nervous 
or a weak Style are laid in an author's manner of thinking. If 
he conceives an object strongly, he will express it with energy ; 
but if he has only an indistinct view of his subject ; if his ideas 
be loose and wavering ; if his genius be such, or, at the time of 
his writing, so carelessly exerted, that he has no firm hold of the 
conception which he would communicate to us, the marks of all 
this w T ill clearly appear in his Style. Several unmeaning words 
and loose epithets will be found ; his expressions will be vague 
and general ; his arrangement indistinct and feeble ; we shall 
conceive somewhat of his meaning, but our conception will be 
faint. Whereas a nervous writer, whether he employs an 
extended or a concise Style, gives us always a strong impression 
of his meaning ; his mind is full of his subject, and his words are 
all expressive ; every phrase and every figure which he uses, 
tends to render the picture, which he would set before us, more 
lively and complete. 

I observed, under the head of Diffuse and Concise Style, that 
an author might lean either to the one or to the other, and yet 
be beautiful. This is not the case with respect to the ISfervous 
and the Feeble. Every author, in every composition, ought to 
study to express himself with some strength, and in proportion 
as he approaches to the Feeble, he becomes a bad w T riter. In 
all kinds of writing, however, the same degree of strength is not 
demanded. But the more grave and weighty any composition 
is, the more should a character of strength predominate in the 
Style. Hence in history, philosophy, and solemn discourses, it 
is expected most. One of the most complete models of a 
Nervous Style, is Demosthenes in his orations. 

As every good quality in Style has an extreme, when pursued 
to which it becomes faulty, this holds of the Nervous Style as 
well as others. Too great a study of strength, to the neglect of 
the other qualities of Style, is found to betray writers into a 
harsh manner. Harshness arises from unusual words, from 
forced inversions in the construction of a sentence, and too much 
neglect of smoothness and ease. This is reckoned the fault of 
some of our earliest classics in the English language; such as 
Sir Walter Raleigh, Sir Francis Bacon, Hooker, Chillingworth, 
Milton in his prose works, Harrington, Cudworth, and other 
writers of considerable note in the days of Queen Elizabeth, 
James I., and Charles I. These writers had nerves and strength 
in a high degree, and are to this day eminent for that quality in 
Style. But the language in their hands was exceedingly 
different from what it is now, and w T as indeed entirely formed 
upon the idiom and construction of the Latin in the arrange- 
ment of sentences. Hooker, for instance, begins the Preface to 
his celebrated work of Ecclesiastical Polity, with the following 
sentence : " Though for no other cause, vet for this, that pos- 



208 CONCISE AND • [LECT. XVIII. 

terity may know we have not loosely, through silence, permitted 
things to pass away as in a dream, there shall be, for men's infor- 
mation, extant this much concerning the present state of the 
church of God established amongst us, and their careful endea- 
vours which would have upheld the same." Such a sentence 
now sounds harsh in our ears. Yet some advantages certainly 
attended this sort of Style ; and whether we have gained, or 
lost, upon the whole, by departing from it, may bear a question. 
By the freedom of arrangement, which it permitted, it rendered 
the language susceptible of more strength, of more variety of 
collocation, and more harmony of period. But however this be, 
such a Style is now obsolete, and no modern writer could adopt 
it without the censure of harshness and affectation. The present 
form which the language has assumed, has, in some measure, 
sacrificed the study of strength to that of perspicuity and ease. 
Our arrangement of words has become less forcible, perhaps, but 
more plain and natural: and this is now understood to be the 
genius of our language. 

The restoration of King Charles II. seems to be the era 
of the formation of our present style. Lord Clarendon was one 
of the first who laid aside those frequent inversions which pre- 
vailed among writers of the former age. After him, Sir 
William Temple polished the language still more. But the 
author, who, by the number and reputation of his works formed 
it more than any one, into its present state, is Dry den. Dryden 
began to write at the Restoration, and continued long an author 
both in poetry and prose. He had made the language his 
study ; and though he wrote hastily, and often incorrectly, and 
his Style is not free from faults, yet there is a richness in his 
diction, a copiousness, ease, and variety in his expression, which 
has not been surpassed by any who have come after him.* Since 
his time, considerable attention has been paid to purity and 
elegance of Style ; but it is elegance rather than strength, that 
forms the distinguishing quality of most of the good English 
writers. Some of them compose in a more manly and nervous 
manner than others ; but, whether it be from the genius of our 
language, or from whatever other cause, it appears to me, that 
we are far from the strength of several of the Greek and Roman 
authors. 

Hitherto we have considered Style under those characters 
that respect its expressiveness of an author's meaning. Let us 
now proceed to consider it in another view, with respect to the 

* Dr. Johnson, in his life of Dryden, gives -the following character of his prose 
Style : u His prefaces have not the formality of a settled Style, in which the first half of 
the sentence betrays the other. The clauses are never balanced, nor the periods 
modelled ; every word seems to drop by chance, though it falls into its proper place. 
Nothing is cold or languid, the whole is airy, animated, and vigorous ; what is little, is 
gay; what is great, is splendid. Though all is easy, nothing is feeble; though all 
seems careless, there is nothing harsh ; and though, since his earlier works, more than a 
century has passed, they have nothing yet uncouth or obsolete." 



LECT. XVIII.] DRY STYLE. — PLAIN STYLE. 209 

degree of ornament employed to beautify it. Here, the Style 
of different authors seems to rise, in the following gradation : 
a Dry, a Plain, a Neat, an Elegant, a Flowery manner. Of 
each of these in their order. 

First, a Dry manner. This excludes all ornament of every 
kind. Content with being understood, it has not the least 
aim to please, either tbe fancy or the ear. This is tolerable 
only in pure didactic writing ; and even there, to make us bear 
it, great weight and solidity of matter is requisite ; and entire 
perspicuity of language. Aristotle is the complete example 
of a Dry Style. Never, perhaps, was there any author who 
adhered so rigidly to the strictness of a didactic manner through- 
out all his writings, and conveyed so much instruction, with- 
out the least approach to ornament. With the most profound 
genius and extensive views, he writes like a pure intelligence, 
who addresses himself solely to the understanding, without 
making any use of the channel of the imagination. But this 
is a manner which deserves not to be imitated. For, although 
the goodness of the matter may compensate the dryness or 
harshness of the Style, yet is that dryness a considerable 
defect ; as it fatigues attention, and conveys our sentiments, 
with disadvantage, to the reader or hearer. 

A Plain Style, rises one degree above a Dry one. A writer 
of this character employs very little ornament of any kind, 
and rests almost entirely upon his sense. But, if he is at no 
pains to engage us by the employment of figures, musical ar- 
rangement, ar any other art of writing, he studies, however, 
to avoid disgusting us like a dry and a harsh writer. Be- 
sides Perspicuity, he pursues Propriety, Purity, and Precision 
in his language ; which form one degree, and no inconsiderable 
one, of beauty. Liveliness, too, and force, may be consistent 
with a very Plain Style : and therefore, such an author, if his 
sentiments be good, may be abundantly agreeable. The differ- 
ence between a dry and plain writer, is, that the former is 
incapable of ornament, and seems not to know what it is; 
the Jatter seeks not after it. He gives us his meaning in 
good language, distinct and pure; any further ornament he 
gives himself no trouble about ; either, because he thinks it 
unnecessary to his subject ; or because his genius does not lead 
him to delight in it ; or, because it leads him to despise it. # 

This last was the case with Dean Swift, who may be placed at 
the head of those that have employed the Plain Style. Few 
writers have discovered more capacity. He treats every subject 
which he handles, whether serious or ludicrous, in a masterly 

* On this head, of the general characters of Style, particularly the plain and the 
simple, and the characters of those English authors who are classed under them, in this 
and the following Lecture, several ideas have been taken from a manuscript treatise on 
rhetoric, part of which was shown to me many years ago, by the learned and ingenious 
author, Dr. Adam Smith j and which, it is hoped, will be given by him to the public. 



210 NEAT STYLE. [LECT. XVIII. 

manner, He knew, almost beyond any man, the Purity, the 
the Extent, the Precision of the English Language ; and there- 
fore, to such as wish to attain a pure and correct Style, he 
is one of the most useful models. But we must not look for 
much ornament and grace in his language. His haughty and 
morose genius made him despise any embellishment of this kind 
as beneath his dignity. He delivers his sentiments in a plain, 
downright, positive manner, like one who is sure he is in the 
right; and is very indifferent whether you be pleased or not. 
His sentences are commonly negligently arranged; distinctly 
enough as to the sense; but without any regard to smooth- 
ness of sound; often without much regard to compactness or 
elegance. If a metaphor, or any other figure, chanced to render 
his satire more poignant, he would, perhaps, vouchsafe to adopt 
it, when it came in his way ; but if it tended only to embellish 
and illustrate, he would rather throw it aside. Hence, in his 
serious pieces, his Style often borders upon the dry and unpleas- 
ing ; in his humorous ones, the plainness of his manner sets off 
his wit to the highest advantage. There is no froth nor affecta- 
tion in it ; it seems native and unstudied ; and while he hardly 
appears to smile himself, he makes his reader laugh heartily. To 
a writer of such a genius as Dean Swift, the Plain Style was 
most admirably fitted. Among our philosophical writers, Mr. 
Locke comes under this class : perspicuous and pure, but almost 
without any ornament whatever. In works which admit or re- 
quire ever so much ornament, there are parts where the plain 
manner ought to predominate. But we must remember, that 
when this is the character which a writer affects throughout his 
whole composition, great weight of matter, and great force of 
sentiment, are required, in order to keep up the reader's atten- 
tion, and prevent him from becoming tired of the author. 

What is called a Neat Style comes next in order ; and 
here we are got into the region of ornament ; but that ornament 
not of the highest or most sparkling kind. A writer of this 
character shows, that he does not despise the beauty of Lan- 
guage. It is an object of his attention. But his attention is 
shown in the choice of words, and in a graceful collocation 
of them ; rather than in any high efforts of imagination, or 
eloquence. His sentences are always clean, and free from 
the incumbrance of superfluous words ; of a moderate length ; 
rather inclining to brevity, than a swelling structure ; closing 
with propriety ; without any tails, or adjections dragging after 
the proper close. His cadence is varied ; but not of the studied 
musical kind. His figures, if he uses any, are short and 
correct; rather than bold and glowing. Such a Style as this 
may be attained by a writer who has no great pow T ers of fancy 
or genius; by industry merely, and careful attention to the 
rules of writing, and it is a Style always agreeable. It imprints 
a character of moderate elevation on our composition, and carries 



LECT. XVIII.] ELEGANT STYLE. 211 

a decent degree of ornament, which is not unsuitable to any 
subject whatever. A familiar letter, or a law paper, on the 
driest subject, may be written with neatness ; and a sermon, or 
a philosophical treatise, in a Neat Style, will be read with 
pleasure. 

An Elegant Style is a character expressing a higher degree 
of ornament than a neat one ; and, indeed, is the term usually 
applied to Style, when possessing all the virtues of ornament, 
without any of its excesses or defects. From what has been 
formerly delivered, it will easily be understood, that complete 
Elegance implies great perspicuity and propriety ; purity in the 
choice of words, and care and dexterity in their harmonious and 
happy arrangement. It implies, farther, the grace and beauty 
of imagination spread over style, as far as the subject admits it ; 
and all the illustration which Figurative Language adds, when 
properly employed. In a word, an elegant writer is one 
who pleases the fancy and the ear, while he informs the under- 
standing ; and who gives us his ideas clothed with all the beauty 
of expression, but not overcharged with any of its misplaced 
finery. In this class, therefore, we place only the first-rate 
writers in the Language ; such as Addison, Dryden, Pope, 
Temple, Bolingbroke, Atterbury, and a few more : writers who 
differ widely from one another in many of the attributes of 
Style, but whom we now class together under the denomination 
of Elegant, as, in the scale of Ornament, possessing nearly the 
same place. 

When the ornaments, applied to a Style, are too rich and 
gaudy in proportion to the subject ; when they return upon us 
too fast, and strike us either with a dazzling lustre, or a false 
brilliancy* this forms what is called a florid Style ; a term com- 
monly used to signify the excess of ornament. In a young 
composer this is very pardonable. Perhaps it is even a promis- 
ing symptom in young people, that their Style should incline to 
the Florid and Luxuriant : " Yolo se efferat in adolescente faecun- 
ditas," says Quinctilian, " multum inde decoquent anni, multum 
ratio limabit, aliquid velut usu ipso deteretur ; sit modo uncle ex- 
cidi possit quid et exculpi. — Audeat hsec setas plura, et inveniat 
et inventis gaudeat ; sint licet ilia non satis interim sicca et severa. 
Facile remedium est ubertatis: sterilia nullo labore vincuntur." # 
But/ although the Florid Style may be allowed to youth, in 
their first essays, it must not receive the same indulgence from 
writers of maturer years. It is to be expected, that judgment, 
as it ripens, should chasten imagination, and reject, as juvenile, 
all such ornaments as are redundant, unsuitable to the subject, 

* " In youth, I wish to see luxuriancy of fancy apppar. Much of it will he di- 
minished by years ; much will be corrected by ripening judgment ; some of it, by the 
mere practice of composition, will be worn away. Let there be only sufficient matter, 
at first, that can bear some pruning and lopping off. At this time of life, let genius be 
bold and inventive, and pride itself in its efforts, though these should not, as yet, be 
correct. Luxuriancy can easily be cured ; but for barrenness there is no remedy." 



212 FLORID STYLE. [LECT. XVIII. 

or not conducive to illustrate it. Nothing can be more con- 
temptible than that tinsel splendour of Language, which some 
writers perpetually affect. It were well, if this could be ascribed 
to the real overflowing of a rich imagination. We should then 
have something to amuse us, at least, if we found little to 
instruct us. But the worst is, that with those frothy writers, it 
is a luxuriancy of words, not of fancy. We see a laboured 
attempt to rise to a splendour of composition, of which they have 
formed to themselves some loose idea ; but, having no strength 
of genius for attaining it, they endeavour to supply the defect 
by poetical words, by cold exclamations, by common-place 
figures, and every thing that has the appearance of pomp and 
magnificence. It has escaped these writers, that sobriety in 
ornament is one great secret for rendering it pleasing ; and that, 
without a foundation of good sense and solid thought, the most 
Florid Style is but a childish imposition on the public. The 
public, however, are but too apt to be so imposed on ; at least the 
mob of readers, who are very ready to be caught, at first, with 
whatever is dazzling and gaudy. 

I cannot help thinking, that it reflects more honour on the 
religious turn, and good disposition of the present age, than on 
the public taste, that Mr. Hervey's Meditations have had so 
great a currency. The pious and benevolent heart, which is 
always displayed in them, and the lively fancy, which, on some 
occasions, appears, justly merited applause : but the perpetual 
glitter of expression, the swoln imagery, and strained descrip- 
tion which abound in them, are ornaments of a false kind. I 
would, therefore, advise students of oratory to imitate Mr. 
Hervey's piety, rather than his Style ; and, in all compositions 
of a serious kind, to turn their attention, as Mr. Pope says, 
" from sounds to things, from fancy to the heart." Admonitions 
of this kind I have already had occasion to give, and may here- 
after repeat them ; as I conceive nothing more incumbent on me 
in this course of Lectures, than to take every opportunity of 
cautioning my readers against the affected and frivolous use of 
ornament; and, instead of that slight and superficial taste in 
writing, which I apprehend to be at present too fashionable, to 
introduce, as far as my endeavours can avail, a taste of more 
solid thought, and more manly Simplicity in Style. 



LECT. XIX.] SIMPLICITY IN STYLE. 213 

LECTUKE XIX. 

GENERAL CHARACTERS OF STYLE SIMPLE, AFFECTED, 

VEHEMENT — DIRECTIONS FOR FORMING A PROPER STYLE. 

Having entered, in the last Lecture, on the consideration of 
the general Characters of Style, I treated of the Concise and 
Diffuse, the Nervous and Feeble manner. I considered Style 
also, with relation to the different degrees of ornament em- 
ployed to beautify it ; in which view, the manner of different 
authors rises according to the following gradation : Dry, Plain, 
Neat, Elegant, Flowery. 

I am next to treat of Style under another character, one of 
great importance in writing, and which requires to be accurately 
examined; that of Simplicity, or a Natural Style, as distin- 
guished from Affectation. Simplicity, applied to writing, is a 
term very frequently used ; but, like many other critical terms, 
often used loosely and without precision. This has been owing 
chiefly to the different meanings given to the word Simplicity, 
which, therefore, it will be necessary here to distinguish; and to 
show in what sense it is a proper attribute of Style. We may 
remark four different acceptations in which it is taken. 

The first is, Simplicity of Composition, as opposed to too 
great a variety of parts. Horace's precept refers to this : 

Denique sit quod vis simplex duntaxat et unum.* 

This is the Simplicity of plan in a tragedy, as distinguished 
from double plots, and crowded incidents ; the Simplicity of the 
Iliad, or ^Eneid, in opposition to the digressions of Lucan, and 
the scattered tales of Ariosto ; the Simplicity of Grecian archi- 
tecture, in opposition to the irregular variety of the Gothic. 
In this sense, Simplicity is the same with Unity. 

The second sense is, Simplicity of Thought, as opposed to 
Refinement. Simple thoughts are what arise naturally ; what 
the occasion or the subject suggest unsought ; and what, when 
once suggested, are easily apprehended by all. Refinement in 
writing, expresses a less natural and obvious train of thought, 
and which it required a peculiar turn of genius to pursue - r 
within certain bounds very beautiful; but when carried too 
far, approaching to intricacy, and hurting us by the appear- 
ance of being recherche or far-sought. Thus, we would na- 
turally say, that Mr. Parnell is a poet of far greater sim- 
plicity, in his turn of thought, than Mr. Cowley; Cicero's 

* " Then learn the wandering humour to control, 

And keep one equal tenor through the whole." Francis. 



214 SIMPLICITY IN STYLE. [LECT. XIX. 

thoughts on moral subjects are natural ; Seneca's too refined and 
laboured. In these two senses of Simplicity, when it is opposed, 
either to variety of parts, or to refinement of thought, it has no 
proper relation to Style. 

There is a third sense of Simplicity, in which it has respect 
to Style ; and stands opposed to too much ornament, or pomp 
of language ; as when we say, Mr. Locke is a simple, Mr. 
Hervey a florid writer ; and it is in this sense, that the " sim- 
plex" the " lenue" or " subtile genus dicendi" is understood by 
Cicero and Quinctilian. The Simple Style, in this sense, 
coincides with the Plain or the Neat Style, which I before 
mentioned ; and, therefore, requires no further illustration. 

But there is a fourth sense of Simplicity, also, respecting 
Style; but not respecting the degree of ornament employed, 
so much as the easy and natural manner in which our Lan- 
guage expresses our thoughts. This is quite different from 
the former sense of the word just now mentioned, in which 
Simplicity was equivalent to Plainness ; whereas, in this sense, 
it is compatible with the highest ornament. Homer, for in- 
stance, possesses this Simplicity in the greatest perfection ; and 
yet no writer has more Ornament and Beauty. This Simplicity, 
which is what .we are now to consider, stands opposed, not 
to ornament, but to Affectation of Ornament, or appearance 
of labour about our Style ; and it is a distinguishing excellency 
in writing. 

A writer of Simplicity expresses himself in such a manner, 
that every one thinks he could have written in the same way ; 
Horace describes it, 

CJ6 sibi quivis 
Speret idem, sudet multum, frustraque laboret 
Ausus idem.* 

There are no marks of art in his expression ; it seems the very 
language of nature; you see in the Style, not the writer 
and his labour, but the man in his own natural character. 
He may be rich in his expression ; he may be full of figures, 
and of fancy ; but these flow from him without effort ; and 
he appears to write in this manner, not because he has studied 
it, but because it is the manner of expression most natural to 
him. A certain degree of negligence, also, is not inconsistent 
with this character of Style, and even not ungraceful in it ; for 
too minute an attention to words is foreign to it : " Habeat 
ille," says Cicero, (Orat. No. 77.) " molle quiddam, et quod 
indice non ingratam negligentiam hominis, de re magis quam de 



From well-known tales such fictions would I raise, 

As all might hope to imitate with ease ; 

Yet while they strive the same success to gain, 

Should find their labours and their hopes in vain." Fhancis. 



LECT. XIX.] AFFECTATTON IN STYLE. 215 

verbo laborantis."* This is the great advantage of Simplicity of 
Style, that, like simplicity of manners, it shows us a man's sen- 
timents and turn of mind laid open without disguise. More 
studied and artificial manners of writing, however beautiful, 
have always this disadvantage, that they exhibit an author 
in form, like a man at court, where the splendour of dress, 
and the ceremonial of behaviour, conceal those peculiarities 
which distinguish one man from another. But reading an 
author of Simplicity, is like conversing with a person of dis- 
tinction at home, and with ease, where we find natural manners, 
and a marked character. 

The highest degree of this Simplicity is expressed by a 
French term, to which we have none that fully answers in 
our language, naivete. It is not easy to give a precise idea of the 
import of this word. It always expresses a discovery of cha- 
racter. I believe the best account of it is given by a French 
critic, M. Marmontel, who explains it thus : That sort of 
amiable ingenuity, or undisguised openness, which seems to 
give us some degree of superiority over the person who shows 
it ; a certain infantine simplicity, which we love in our hearts, 
but which displays some features of the character that we think 
we could have art enough to hide ; and which, therefore, 
always leads us to smile at the person who discovers this 
character. La Fontaine, in his Fables, is given as the great 
example of such naivete. This, however, is to be understood, as 
descriptive of a particular species only of Simplicity. 

With respect to Simplicity, in general, we may remark, that 
the ancient original writers are always the most eminent for it. 
This happens from a plain reason, that they wrote from the 
dictates of natural genius, and were not formed upon the labours 
and writings of others, which is always in hazard of producing 
affectation. Hence, among the Greek writers, we have more 
models of a beautiful Simplicity than among the Roman. Homer, 
Hesiod, Anacreon, Theocritus, Herodotus and Xenophon, are all 
distinguished for it. Among the Romans also, we have some 
writers of this character, particularly Terence, Lucretius, Phas- 
drus, and Julius Caesar. The following passage of Terence's 
Andria, is a beautiful instance of Simplicity of manner in de- 
scription : 

Funus interim 
Procedit : sequimur ; ad sepulchrum venimus ; 
In ignem imposita est ; fletur. Interea haec soror, 
Quam dixi, ad flammam accessit imprudentius 
Satis cum periculo. Ibi turn exanimatus Pamphilus, 
Bene dissimulatum amorem, et celatum indicat ; 
Occurrit praeceps, mulierem ab igne retrabit, 
Mea Glycerium, inquit, quid agis ? Cur te is perditum 1 

* " Let tbis Style have a certain softness and ease, which shall characterise a negli- 
gence, not unpleasing in an author, who appears to be more solicitous about the 
thought than the expression." 



216 SIMPLICITY AND [LECT. XIX. 

Turn ilia, ut consuetum facile amorem cerneres, 

Rejecit se in eum, flens quiim familiariter.* Act I. Sc. 1. 

All the words here are remarkably happy and elegant : and con- 
vey a most lively picture of the scene described : while, at the 
same time, the style appears wholly artless and unlaboured. 
Let us, next, consider some English writers who come under 
this class. 

Simplicity is the great beauty of Archbishop Tillotson's man- 
ner. Tillotson has long been admired as an eloquent writer, and 
a model for preaching. But his eloquence, if we can call it 
such, has been often misunderstood. For, if we include, in the 
idea of eloquence, vehemence and strength, picturesque descrip- 
tion, glowing figures, or correct arrangement of sentences, in all 
these parts of oratory the archbishop is exceedingly deficient. 
His style is always pure, indeed, and perspicuous, but careless 
and remiss, too often feeble and languid ; little beauty in the 
construction of his sentences, which are frequently suffered to 
drag unharmoniously ; seldom any attempt towards strength or 
sublimity. But, notwithstanding these defects, such a constant 
vein of good sense and piety runs through his works, such an 
earnest and serious manner, and so much useful instruction 
conveyed in a style so pure, natural, and unaffected, as will 
justly recommend him to high regard, as long as the English 
language remains ; not, indeed, as a model of the highest elo- 
quence, but as a simple and amiable writer^ whose manner is 
strongly expressive of great goodness and worth. I observed 
before, that Simplicity of manner may be consistent with some 
degree of negligence in Style ; and it is only the beauty of that 
Simplicity which makes the negligence of such writers seem 
graceful. But, as appears in the archbishop, negligence may 
sometimes be carried so far as to impair the beauty of Simplicity, 
and make it border on a flat and languid manner. 

Sir William Temple is another remarkable writer in the Style 
of Simplicity. In point of ornament and correctness, he rises a 
degree above Tillotson ; though, for correctness, he is not in the 
highest rank. All is easy and flowing in him ; he is exceed- 
ingly harmonious; smoothness, and what may be called amenity, 

* " Meanwhile the funeral proceeds ; we follow ; 
Come to the sepulchre : the body 's placed 
Upon the pile ; lamented ; whereupon 
This sister I was speaking of, all wild, 
Ran to the flames with peril of her life. 
There ! there ! the frighted Pamphilus betrays 
His well-dissembled and long-hidden love; 
Runs up and takes her round the waist, and cries, 
Oh ! my Glycerium ! what is it you do ? 
Why, why endeavour to destroy yourself? 
Then she, in such a manner, that you thence 
Might easily perceive their long, long love, 
Threw herself back into his arms, and wept, 
Oh ! how familiarly ! " Colman. 



LECT. XIX.] AFFECTATION IN STYLE. 217 

are the distinguishing characters of his manner ; relaxing some- 
times, as such a manner will naturally do, into a prolix and 
remiss style. No writer whatever has stamped upon his style a 
more lively impression of his own character. In reading his 
works, we seem engaged in conversation with him ; we become 
thoroughly acquainted with him, not merely as an author, but as 
a man; and contract a friendship for him. He may be classed as 
standing in the middle, between a negligent Simplicity, and the 
highest degree of ornament which this character of style admits. 

Of the latter of these, the highest, most correct, and orna- 
mented degree of the simple manner, Mr. Addison is, beyond 
doubt, in the English language, the most perfect example : and, 
therefore, though not without some faults, he is, on the whole, 
the safest model for imitation, and the freest from considerable 
defects, which the language affords. Perspicuous and pure he 
is in the highest degree ; his precision, indeed, not very great ; 
yet nearly as great as the subjects which he treats of require : 
the construction of his sentences easy, agreeable, and commonly 
very musical ; carrying a character of smoothness, more than of 
strength. In Figurative language, he is rich: particularly in 
similes and metaphors ; which are so employed as to render his 
Style splendid without being gaudy. There is not the least 
affectation in his manner : we see no marks of labour ; nothing 
forced or constrained ; but great elegance, joined with great 
ease and simplicity. He is, in particular, distinguished by a 
character of modeJfcy, and of politeness, which appears in all his 
writings. No author has a more popular and insinuating man- 
ner; and the great regard which he every where shows for 
virtue and religion, recommends him highly. If he fails in any 
thing, it is in want of strength and precision, which renders his 
manner, though perfectly suited to such essays as he writes in the 
Spectator, not altogether a proper model for any of the higher 
and more elaborate kinds of composition. Though the public 
have ever done much justice to his merit, yet the nature of his 
merit has not always been seen in its true light ; for, though his 
poetry be elegant, he certainly bears a higher rank among the 
prose writers than he is entitled to among the poets ; and, in 
prose, his humour is of a much higher and more original strain, 
than his philosophy. The character of Sir Roger de Coverley 
discovers more genius than the critique on Milton. 

Such authors as those, whose characters I have been giving, 
one is never tired of reading. There is nothing in their manner 
that strains or fatigues our thoughts ; we are pleased without 
being dazzled by their lustre. So powerful is the charm of 
Simplicity in an author of real genius, that it atones for many 
defects, and reconciles us to many a careless expression. Hence, 
in all the most excellent authors, both in prose and verse, the 
simple and natural manner may be always remarked ; although 
other beauties being predominant, this forms not their peculiar 

K 



218 SIMPLICITY, ETC. IN STYLE. [LECT. XIX. 

and distinguishing character. Thus Milton is simple in the 
midst of all his grandeur; and Demosthenes in the midst of 
all his vehemence. To grave and solemn writings, Simplicity 
of manner adds the more venerable air. Accordingly, this has 
often been remarked as the prevailing character throughout all 
the sacred Scriptures ; and indeed no other character of Style 
was so much suited to the dignity of inspiration. 

Of authors, who, notwithstanding many excellencies, have 
rendered their Style much less beautiful by want of Simplicity, 
I cannot give a more remarkable example than Lord Shaftes- 
bury. This is an author on whom I have made observations 
several times before, and shall now take leave of him with giving 
his general character under this head. Considerable merit, 
doubtless, he has. His works might be read with profit for the 
moral philosophy which they contain, had he not filled them 
with so many oblique and invidious insinuations against the 
Christian Religion, thrown out, too, with so much spleen and 
satire, as do no honour to his memory, either as an author or a 
man. His language has many beauties. It is firm, and sup- 
ported in an uncommon degree ; it is rich and musical. No 
English author, as I formerly showed, has attended so much to 
propriety, and with respect to cadence. All this gives so much 
elegance and pomp to his language, that there is no wonder it 
should have been highly admired by some. It is greatly hurt, 
however, by perpetual stiffness and affectation. This is its 
capital fault. His lordship can express nothing with Simplicity. 
He seems to have considered it as vulgar, and beneath the 
dignity of a man of quality, to speak like other men. Hence 
he is ever in buskins; and dressed out with magnificent ele- 
gance. In every sentence we see the marks of labour and art ; 
nothing of that ease, which expresses a sentiment coming natural 
and warm from the heart. Of figures and ornament of every 
kind, he is exceedingly fond ; sometimes happy in them; but his 
fondness for them is too visible ; and, having once laid hold of 
some metaphor or allusion that pleased him, he knows not how 
to part with it. What is most wonderful, he was a professed 
admirer of Simplicity; is always extolling it in the ancients, 
and censuring the moderns for the want of it ; though he de- 
parts from it himself as far as any one modern whatever. Lord 
Shaftesbury possessed delicacy and refinement of taste, to a 
degree that we may call excessive and sickly ; but he had little 
warmth of passion ; few strong or vigorous feelings : and the 
coldness of his character led him to that artificial and stately 
manner which appears in his writings. He was fonder of nothing 
than of wit and raillery ; but he is far from being happy in it. He 
attempts it often, but always awkwardly ; he is stiff even in his 
pleasantry; and laughs in form, like an author, and not like a man.* 

* It may, perhaps, be not unworthy of being mentioned, that the first Edition of his 
Enquiry into Virtue was published, surreptitiously, I believe, in a separate form, in the 



LECT. XIX.] VEHEMENT STYLE. 219 

From the account which I have given of Lord Shaftesbury's 
manner, it may easily be imagined, that he would mislead many 
who blindly admired him. Nothing is more dangerous to the 
tribe of imitators, than an author, who, with many imposing 
beauties, has also some very considerable blemishes. This is 
fully exemplified in Mr. Blackwall of Aberdeen, the author of 
the Life of Homer, the Letters on Mythology, and the Court of 
Augustus ; a writer of considerable learning, and of ingenuity 
also ; but infected with an extravagant love of an artificial style, 
and of that parade of language which distinguishes the Shaftes- 
burean manner. 

Having now said so much to recommend Simplicity, or the 
easy and natural manner of writing, and having pointed out the 
defects of an opposite manner ; in order to prevent mistakes on 
this subject, it is necessary for me to observe, that it is very 
possible for an author to write simply, and yet not beautifully. 
One may be free from affectation, and not have merit. The 
beautiful Simplicity supposes an author to possess real genius ; 
to write with solidity, purity, and liveliness of imagination. In 
this case, the Simplicity or unaffectedness of his manner, is the 
crowning ornament ; it heightens every other beauty ; it is the 
dress of nature, without which all beauties are imperfect. But 
if mere unaffectedness were sufficient to constitute the beauty of 
Style, weak, trifling and dull writers might often lay claim to 
this beauty. And, accordingly, we frequently meet with pre- 
tended critics, who extol the dullest writers on account of what 
they call the "Chaste Simplicity of their manner;" which, in 
truth, is no other than the absence of every ornament, through 
the mere want of genius and imagination. We must distinguish, 
therefore, between that Simplicity which accompanies true 
genius, and which is perfectly compatible with every proper 
ornament of Style, and that which is no other than a careless 
and slovenly manner. Indeed, the distinction is easily made 
from the effect produced. The one never fails to interest the 
reader ; the other is insipid and tiresome. 

I proceed to mention one other manner or character of Style 
different from any that I have yet spoken of; which may be 
distinguished by the name of the Vehement. This always 
implies strength ; and is not, by any means, inconsistent with 
Simplicity : but, in its predominant character, is distinguishable 
from either the strong or the simple manner. It has a peculiar 
ardour ; it is a glowing Style ; the language of a man, whose 
imagination and passions are heated, and strongly affected by 
what he writes ; who is therefore negligent of lesser graces, but 

year 1699 ; and is sometimes to be met with ; by comparing which with the corrected 
edition of the same treatise, as it now stands among his works, we see one of the most 
curious and useful examples that I know, of what is called lima labor; the art of 
polishing language, breaking long sentences, and working up an imperfect draught 
into a highly-finished performance. 

B2 



220 GENEEAL CHAKACTEES OF STYLE. [LECT. XIX. 

pours himself forth with the rapidity and fulness of a torrent. It 
belongs to the higher kinds of oratory ; and, indeed, is rather 
expected from a man who is speaking, than from one who is 
writing in his closet. The orations of Demosthenes furnish the 
full and perfect example of this species of Style. 

Among English writers, the one who has most of this cha- 
racter, though mixed, indeed with several defects, is Lord 
Bolingbroke. Bolingbroke was formed by nature to be a fac- 
tious leader ; the demagogue of a popular assembly. Accord- 
ingly the style that runs through all his political writings, is that 
of one declaiming with heat, rather than writing with delibera- 
tion. He abounds in Rhetorical Figures; and pours himself 
forth with great impetuosity. He is copious to a fault ; places 
the same thought before us in many different views ; but gene- 
rally with life and ardour. He is bold, rather than correct ; a 
torrent that flows strong, but often muddy. His sentences are 
varied as to length and shortness ; inclining, however, most to 
long periods, sometimes including parentheses, and frequently 
crowding and heaping a multitude of things upon one another, 
as naturally happens in the warmth of speaking. In the choice 
of his words, there is great felicity and precision. In exact 
construction of sentences, he is much inferior to Lord Shaftes- 
bury ; but greatly superior to him in life and ease. Upon the 
whole, his merit, as a writer, would have been very considerable, 
if his matter had equalled his Style. But whilst we find many 
things to commend in the latter, in the former, as I before 
remarked, we can hardly find any thing to commend. In his 
reasonings, for the most part, he is flimsy and false ; in his political 
writings, factious ; in what he calls his philosophical ones, 
irreligious and sophistical in the highest degree. 

I shall insist no longer on the different manners of Writers, 
or the general character of Style. Some other, beside those 
which I have mentioned, might be pointed out ; but I am sen- 
sible, that it is very difficult to separate such general considera- 
tions of the Style of authors from their peculiar turn of sentiment, 
which it is not my business at present to criticise. Conceited 
writers, for instance, discover their spirit so much in their com- 
position, that it imprints on their Style a character of pertness ; 
though I confess it is difficult to say whether this can be classed 
among the attributes of Style, or rather, is to be ascribed 
entirely to the thought. In whatever class we rank it, all 
appearances of it ought to be avoided with care, as a most 
disgusting blemish in writing. Under the general heads, which 
I have considered, I have taken an. opportunity of giving the 
character of many of the eminent classics in the English 
language. 

From what I have said on this subject, it may be inferred, 
that to determine among all these different manners of writing, 
what is precisely the best, is neither easy nor necessary. 



LECT. XIX.] DIRECTIONS FOR FORMING STYLE. 221 

Style is a field that admits of great latitude. Its qualities in 
different authors may be very different ; and yet in them all 
beautiful. Room must be left here for genius ; for that parti- 
cular determination which every one receives from Nature to one 
manner of expression more than another. Some general quali- 
ties, indeed, there are of such importance, as should always, in 
every kind of composition, be kept in view ; and some defects 
we should always study to avoid. An ostentatious, a feeble, a 
harsh, or an obscure Style, for instance, are always faults ; and 
Perspicuity, Strength, Neatness, and Simplicity, are beauties to 
be always aimed at. But as to the mixture of all, or the degree 
of predominancy of any one of these good qualities, for forming 
our peculiar distinguishing manner, no precise rules can be given ; 
nor will I venture to point out any one model as absolutely 
perfect. 

It will be more to the purpose, that I conclude these disserta- 
tions upon Style, with a few Directions concerning the proper 
method of attaining a good Style, in general ; leaving the parti- 
cular character of that Style to be either formed by the subject 
on which we write, or prompted by the bent of genius. 

The first direction which I give for this purpose, is, to study 
clear ideas on the subject concerning which we are to write or 
speak. This is a direction which may at first appear to have 
small relation to Style. Its relation to it, however, is extremely 
close. The foundation of all good Style, is good sense accom- 
panied with a lively imagination. The Style and thoughts of a 
writer are so intimately connected, that, as I have several times 
hinted, it is frequently hard to distinguish them. Whenever the 
impressions of things upon our minds are faint and indistinct, or 
perplexed and confused, our Style in treating of such things will 
infallibly be so too. Whereas, what we conceive clearly, and 
feel strongly, we shall naturally express with clearness and with 
strength. This, then, we may be assured, is a capital rule as to 
Style, to think closely on the subject, till we have attained a full 
and distinct view of the matter which we are to clothe in words, 
till we become warm and interested in it ; then, and not till then, 
shall we find expression begin to flow. Generally speaking, the 
best and most proper expressions are those which a clear view 
of the subject suggests, without much labour or inquiry after 
them. This is Quinctilian's observation, lib. viii. c. 1. "Ple- 
rumque optima verba rebus coherent, et cernuntur suo lumine. 
At nos quaerimus ilia, tanquam lateant seque subducant. Ita 
nunquam putamus verba esse circa id de quo dicendum est ; sed 
ex aliis locis petimus, et inventus vim afferimus." * 

* " The most proper words for the most part adhere to the thoughts which are to be 
expressed by them, and may be discovered as by their own light. But we hunt after 
them as if they were hidden, and only to be found in a corner. Hence, instead of 
conceiving the words to lie near the subject, we go in quest of them to some other 
quarter, and endeavour to give force to the expressions we have found out." 



222 DIRECTIONS FOR [LECT. XIX. 

In the second place, in order to form a good Style, the fre- 
quent practice of composing is indispensably necessary. Many 
rules concerning Style I have delivered, but no rules will answer 
the end without exercise and habit. At the same time, it is not 
every sort of composing that will improve Style. This is so far 
from being the case, that by frequent, careless, and hasty compo- 
sition, we shall acquire certainly a very bad Style ; we shall 
have more trouble afterwards in unlearning faults, and cor- 
recting negligencies, . than if we had not been accustomed 
to composition at all. In the beginning, therefore, we ought 
to write slowly and with much care. Let the facility and 
speed of writing be the fruit of longer practice. " Moram 
et solicitudinem," says Quinctilian with the greatest reason, 1. 
x. c. 3. " initiis impero. Nam primum hoc constituendum ac 
obtinendum est, ut quam op time scribamus : celeritatem dabit 
consuetudo. Paulatim res facilius se ostendent, verba responde- 
bunt, compositio prosequetur. Cuncta denique ut in famiM 
bene instituta in officio erunt. Summa hsec est rei ; cito scribendo 
non fit ut bene scribatur ; bene scribendo, sit ut cito." * 

We must observe, however, that there may be an extreme, in 
too great and anxious care about words. We must not retard 
the course of thought, nor cool the heat of imagination, by 
pausing too long on every word we employ. There is, on certain 
occasions a glow of composition which should be kept up, if we 
hope to express ourselves happily, though at the expense of 
allowing some inadvertencies to pass. A more severe examina- 
tion of these must be left to be the work of correction. For, if 
the practice of composition be useful, the laborious work of cor- 
recting is no less so ; -is indeed absolutely necessary to our 
reaping any benefit from the habit of composition. What we 
have written should be laid by for some little time, till the 
ardour of composition be past, till the fondness for the expres- 
sions we have used be worn off, and the expressions them- . 
selves be forgotten ; and then reviewing our work with a cool 
and critical eye, as if it were the performance of another, we 
shall discern many imperfections which at first escaped us. 
Then is the season for pruning redundancies ; for examining the 
arrangement of sentences ; for attending to the juncture and 
connecting particles ; and bringing Style into a regular, correct, 
and supported form. This " Limes Labor " must be submitted 
to by all who would communicate their thoughts with proper 
advantage to others ; and some practice in it will soon sharpen 



* " I enjoin that such as are beginning the practice of composition, write slowly, and 
with anxious deliberation. Their great object at first should be, to write as well as 
possible ; practice will enable them to write speedily. By degrees matter will offer 
itself still more readily ; words will be at hand ; composition will flow ; everything, as 
in the arrangement of a well-ordered family, will present itself in its proper place. The 
sum of the whole is this, by hasty composition, we shall never acquire the art of com- 
posing well ; by writing well, we shall come to wriie speedily." 



LECT. XIX.] FORMING STYLE. 223 

their eye to the most necessary objects of attention, and render 
it a much more easy and practicable work than might at first be 
imagined. 

In the third place, with respect to the assistance that is to be 
gained from the writings of others, it is obvious, that we ought 
to render ourselves well acquainted with the Style of the best 
authors. This is requisite, both in order to form a just taste in 
Style, and to supply us with a full stock of words on every sub- 
ject. In reading authors with a view to Style, attention should 
be given to the peculiarities of their different manners ; and in 
this, and former Lectures, I have endeavoured to suggest several 
things that may be useful in this view. I know no exercise that 
will be found more useful for acquiring a proper Style, than to 
translate some passage from an eminent English author into our 
own words. What I mean is, to take, for instance, some page 
of one of Mr. Addison's Spectators, and read it carefully over 
two or three times, till we have got a firm hold of the thoughts 
contained in it ; then to lay aside the book ; to attempt to write 
out the passage from memory, in the best way we can ; and 
having done so, next to open the book, and compare what we 
have written, with the Style of the author. Such an exercise 
will, by comparison, show us where the defects of our Style lie ; 
will lead us to the proper attentions for rectifying them ; and 
among the different ways in which the same thought may be 
expressed, will make us perceive that which is the most beau- 
tiful. But, 

In the fourth place, I must caution, at the same time, against 
a servile imitation of any author whatever. This is always 
dangerous. It hampers genius ; it is likely to produce a stiff 
manner ; and those who are given to close imitation, generally 
imitate an author's faults as well as his beauties. No man will 
ever become a good writer or speaker, who has not some degree 
of confidence to follow his own genius. We ought to beware, in 
particular of adopting any author's noted phrases, or transcribing 
passages from him. Such a habit will prove fatal to all genuine 
composition. Infinitely better it is to have something that is 
our own, though of moderate beauty, than to affect to shine in 
borrowed ornaments, which will, at last, betray the utter poverty 
of our genius. On these heads of composing, correcting, reading, 
and imitating, I advise every student of oratory to consult what 
Quinctilian has delivered in the tenth book of his Institutions, 
where he will find a variety of excellent observations and direc- 
tions, that well deserve attention. 

In the fifth place, it is an obvious, but material rule, with 
respect to Style, that we always study to adapt it to the subject, 
and also to the capacity of our hearers, if we are to speak in 
public. Nothing merits the name of eloquent or beautiful, 
which is not suited to the occasion, and to the persons to whom 
it is addressed. It is to the last degree awkward and absurd, to 



224 DIRECTIONS FOR FORMING STYLE. [LECT. XIX. 

attempt a poetical florid Style, on occasions when it should be 
our business only to argue and reason ; or to speak with elabo- 
rate pomp of expression, before persons who comprehend nothing 
of it, and who can only stare at our unseasonable magnificence. 
These are defects not so much in point of Style, as, what is 
much worse, in point of common sense. When we begin to write 
or speak, we ought previously to fix in our minds a clear concep- 
tion of the end to be aimed at ; to keep this steadily in our view, 
and to suit our Style to it. If we do not sacrifice to this great 
object, every ill-timed ornament that may occur to our fancy, we 
are unpardonable ; and though children and fools may admire, 
men of sense will laugh at us and our Style. 

In the last place, I cannot conclude the subject without this 
admonition, that, in any case, and on any occasion, attention to 
Style must not engross us so much, as to detract from a higher 
degree of attention to the thoughts ; " Curam verborum," says 
the great Roman Critic, " rerum volo esse solicitudinem." # A 
direction the more necessary, as the present state of the age in 
writing, seems to lean more to Style than thoughts. It is much 
easier to dress up trivial and common sentiments with some 
beauty of expression, than to afford a fund of vigorous, ingenious, 
and useful thoughts. The latter requires true genius ; the for- 
mer may be attained by industry, with the help of very super- 
ficial parts. Hence, we find so many writers frivolously rich in 
Style, but wretchedly poor in Sentiment. The public ear is 
now so much accustomed to a correct and ornamented Style, that 
no writer can, with safety, neglect the study of it. But he is a 
contemptible one, who does not look to something beyond it; 
who does not lay the chief stress upon his matter, and employ 
such ornaments of Style to recommend it, as are manly, not 
foppish : " Majore animo," says the writer whom I have so often 
quoted, " aggredienda est eloquentia ; quae si toto corpore valet, 
ungues polire et capillum componere, non existimabit ad curam 
suam pertinere. Ornatus et virilis et fortis, et sanctus sit ; nee 
effeminatam levitatem, et fuco ementitum colorem amet; sanguine 
et viribus niteat." f 

* " To your expression be attentive, but about your matter be solicitous. 

t "A higher spirit ought to animate those who study eloquence. They ought to 
consult the health and soundness of the whole body, rather than bend their attention to 
such trifling objects as paring the nails and dressing the hair. Let ornament be manly 
and chaste, without effeminate gaiety, or artificial colouring ; let it shine with the glow 
of health and strength.'' 



LECT. XX.] THE SPECTATOR, NO. 411. 225 



LECTUEE XX. 

CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF THE STYLE OF MR. ADDISON, IN 
NO. 411 OF THE SPECTATOR. 

I have insisted fully on the subject of Language and Style, 
both because it is, in itself, of great importance, and because it 
is more capable of being ascertained by precise rule, than several 
other parts of composition. A critical analysis of the Style of 
some good author will tend further to illustrate the subject : as it 
will suggest observations which I have not had occasion to make, 
and will show, in the most practical light, the use of those which 
I have made. 

Mr. Addison is the author whom I have chosen for this 
purpose. The Spectator, of which his papers are the chief 
ornament, is a book which is in the hands of every one, and 
which cannot be praised too highly. The good sense, and good 
writing, the useful morality, and the admirable vein of humour 
which abound in it, render it one of those standard books which 
have done the greatest honour to the English nation. I have 
formerly given the general character of Mr. Addison's Style and 
manner, as natural and unaffected, easy and polite, and full of 
those graces which a flowery imagination diffuses over writing. 
At the same time, though one of the most beautiful writers in 
the lanoTiao-e, he is not the most correct ; a circumstance which 
renders his composition the more proper to be the subject of our 
present criticism. The free and flowing manner of this amiable 
writer sometimes led him into inaccuracies, which the more 
studied circumspection and care of far inferior writers have 
taught them to avoid. Remarking his beauties, therefore, 
which I shall have frequent occasion to do as I proceed, I must 
also point out his negligences and defects. Without a free 
impartial discussion, of both the faults and beauties which occur 
in his composition, it is evident this piece of criticism would be 
of no service : and from the freedom which I use in criticising 
Mr. Addison's Style, none can imagine, that I mean to depreciate 
his writings, after having repeatedly declared the high opinion 
which I entertain of them. The beauties of this author are so 
many and the general character of his Style is so elegant and 
estimable, that the minute imperfections I shall have occasion to 
point out, are but like those spots in the sun, which may be 
discovered by the assistance of art, but which have no effect in 
obscuring its lustre. It is, indeed, my judgment, that what 
Quinctilian applies to Cicero, " Ille se profecisse sciat, cui Cicero 
valde placebit," may, with justice, be applied to Mr. Addison ; 
that to be highly pleased with his manner of writing, is the 
criterion of one's having acquired a good taste in English Style. 



226 CRITICISM ON THE [LECT. XX. 

The paper on which we are now to enter, is No. 411., the first 
of his celebrated Essays on the Pleasures of the Imagination, in 
the sixth volume of the Spectator. It begins thus : 

Our sight is the most perfect, and most delightful of all our senses. 

This is an excellent introductory sentence. It is clear, pre- 
cise, and simple. The author lays down, in a few plain words, 
the proposition which he is going to illustrate throughout the 
rest of the paragraph. In this manner we should always set 
out. A first sentence should seldom be a long, and never an 
intricate one. 

He might have said, Our sight is the most perfect and the most 

delightful. But he has judged better, in omitting to repeat 

the article the. For the repetition of it is proper chiefly when we 
intend to point out the objects of which we speak, as distinguished 
from, or contrasted with each other ; and when we want that the 
reader's attention should rest on that distinction. For instance, 
had Mr. Addison intended to say, That our sight is at once the 
most delightful, and the most useful, of all our senses, the article 
might then have been repeated with propriety, as a clear and 
strong distinction would have been conveyed. But as between 
perfect and delightful, there is less contrast, there was no occasion 
for such repetition. It would have had no other effect, but to 
add a word unnecessarily to the sentence. He proceeds : 

It Jills the mind with the largest variety of ideas, converses with 
its objects at the greatest distance, and continues the longest in action, 
without being tired or satiated with its proper enjoyments. 

This sentence deserves attention, as remarkably harmonious 
and well constructed. It possesses, indeed, almost all the pro- 
perties of a perfect sentence. It is entirely perspicuous. It is 
loaded with no superfluous or unnecessary words. For, tired or 
satiated, towards the end of the sentence, are not used for 
synonymous terms. They convey distinct ideas, and refer to 
different members of the period; that this sense continues the 
longest in action without being tired, that is, without being fatigued 
with its action; and also, without being satiated with its proper 
I enjoyments. . That quality of a good sentence which I termed its 
unity, is here perfectly preserved. It is our sight of which he 
speaks. This is the object carried through the sentence, and 
presented to us in every member of it, by those verbs, Jills, 
converses, continues, to each of which it is clearly the nominative. 
Those capital words are disposed of in the most proper places ; 
and that uniformity is maintained in the construction of the 
sentence, which suits the unity of the object. 

Observe, too, the music of the period; consisting of three 
members, each of which agreeably to a rule I formerly men- 
tioned, grows, and rises above the other in sound, till the sen- 
tence is conducted, at last, to one of the most melodious closes 
which our language admits ; without being tired or satiated with its 
proper enjoyments. Enjoyments is a word of length and dignity, 



LECT. XX.] SPECTATOK, NO. 411. 227 

exceedingly proper for a close which is designed to be a musical 
one. The harmony is the more happy, as this disposition of the 
members of the period, which suits the sound so well, is no less 
just and proper with respect to the sense. It follows the order 
of nature. First, we have the variety of objects mentioned, 
which sight furnishes to the mind ; next, we have the action of 
sight on those objects; and lastly, we have the time and con- 
tinuance of its action. No order could be more natural Or 
happy. 

This sentence has still another beauty. It is figurative, with- 
out being too much so for the subject. A metaphor runs 
through it. The sense of sight is, in some degree, personified. 
We are told of its conversing with its objects ; and of its not 
being tired or satiated with its enjoyments ; all which expressions 
are plain allusions to the actions and feelings of men. This is 
that slight sort of Personification, which, without any appearance 
of boldness, and without elevating the fancy much above its 
ordinary state, renders discourse picturesque, and leads us to 
conceive the author's meaning more distinctly, by clothing 
abstract ideas, in some degree, with, sensible colours. 

Mr. Addison abounds with this beauty of Style beyond most 
authors ; and the sentence which we have been considering, is 
very expressive of his manner of writing, There is no blemish 
in it whatever, unless that a strict Critic might perhaps object, 
that the epithet large, which he applies to variety — the largest 
variety of ideas, is an epithet more commonly applied to extent 
than to number. It is plain, that he here employed it to avoid 
the repetition of the word great, which occurs immediately after- 
wards. 

The sense of feeling can, indeed, give us a notion of extension, 
shape, and all other ideas that enter at the eye, except colours ; but 
at the same time, it is very much straitened and confined in its opera- 
tions, to the number, bulk, and distance of its particular objects. 

This sentence is by no means so happy as the former. It is, 
indeed, neither clear nor elegant. Extension and shape can, with 
no propriety, be called ideas ; they are the properties of matter. 
Neither is it accurate, even according to Mr. Locke's philosophy 
(with which our author seems here to have puzzled himself), to 
speak of any sense giving us a notion of ideas ; our senses give 
us the ideas themselves. The meaning would have been much 
more clear, if the Author had expressed himself thus : " The 
sense of feeling can, indeed, give us the idea of extension, 
figure, and all the other properties of matter which are perceived 
by the eye, except colours." 

The latter part of the sentence is still more embarrassed. For 
what meaning can we make of the sense of feeling being confined 
in its operations, to the number, bulk, and distance of its partiadar 
objects ? Surely, every sense is confined, as much as the sense of 
feeling, to the number, bulk, and distance of its own objects. 



228 CRITICISM ON THE [LECT. XX. 

Sight and feeling are, in this respect, perfectly on a level ; 
neither of them can extend beyond its own objects. The turn 
of expression is so inaccurate here, that one would be apt to 
suspect two words to have been omitted in the printing, which 
were originally in Mr. Addison's manuscript ; because the inser- 
tion of them would render the sense much more intelligible and 
clear. These two words are, with regard: — it is very much 
straitened, and confined in its operations, with regard to the number, 
bulk, and distance of its particular objects. The meaning then 
would be, that feeling is more limited than sight in this respect ; 
that ifc is confined to a narrower circle, to a smaller number of 
objects. 

The epithet particular, applied to objects, in the conclusion of 
the sentence, is redundant, and conveys no meaning whatever. 
Mr. Addison seems to have used it in place of peculiar, as indeed 
he does often in other passages of his writings. But particular 
and peculiar, though they are too often confounded, are words of 
different import from each other. Particular stands opposed to 
general ; peculiar stands opposed to what is possessed in common 
with others. Particular expresses what in the logical Style is 
called Species ; peculiar what is called differentia. Its peculiar 
objects would have signified in this place, the objects of the sense 
of feeling, as distinguished from the objects of any other sense ; 
and would have had more meaning than its particular objects. 
Though, in truth, neither the one nor the other epithet was 
requisite. It was sufficient to have said simply, its objects. 

Our sight seems designed to supply all these defects, and may be 
considered as a more delicate and diffuse kind of touch, that spreads 
itself over an infinite multitude of bodies, comprehends the largest 
figures, and brings into our reach some of the most remote parts of 
the universe. 

Here again the Author's Style returns upon us in all its 
beauty. This is a sentence distinct, graceful, well arranged, and 
highly musical. In the latter part of it, it is constructed with 
three members, which are formed much in the same manner w ith 
those of the second sentence, on which I bestowed so much 
praise. The 'construction is so similar, that if it had followed 
immediately after it, we should have been sensible of a faulty 
monotony. But the interposition of another sentence between 
them prevents this effect. 

It is this sense which furnishes the imagination with its ideas ; 
so that by the pleasures of the Imagination or Fancy (which I shall 
use promiscuously J I here mean such as arise from visible objects, 
either when we have them actually in our view ; or when we call up 
their ideas into our minds by painting, statues, descriptions, or any 
the like occasion. 

In place of, It is this sense which furnishes — the Author might 
have said more shortly, This sense furnishes. But the mode of 
expression which he has used is here more proper. This sort of 



LECT. XX.] SPECTATOR, NO. 411. 229 

full and ample assertion, it is this which, is fit to be used when a 
proposition of importance is laid down, to which we seek to call 
the reader's attention. It is like pointing with the hand at the 
object of which we speak. The parenthesis in the middle of the 
sentence, which I shall use promiscuously ; is not clear. He 
ought to have said, terms which I shall use promiscuously ; as the 
verb use relates not to the pleasures of the imagination, but to 
the terms of fancy and imagination, which he was to employ as 
synonymous. Any the like occasion — to call a painting or a statue 
an occasion is not a happy expression, nor is it very proper to 
speak of calling up ideas by occasion. The common phrase, any 
such means, would have been more natural. 

We cannot indeed have a single image in the fancy, that did not 
make its first entrance through the sight ; hut we have the power of 
retaining, altering, and compounding those images which we have 
once received, into all the varieties of picture and vision that are 
most agreeable to the imagination ; for, by this faculty, a man in a 
dungeon is capable of entertaining himself with scenes and landscapes 
more beautiful than any that can be found in the whole compass of 
nature. 

It may be of use to remark, that in one member of this sen- 
tence there is an inaccuracy in syntax. It is very proper to say, 
altering and compounding those images which we have once received 
into all the varieties of picture and vision. But we can with no 
propriety say, retaining them into all the varieties; and yet, 
according to the manner in which the words are ranged, this 
construction is unavoidable. For retaining, altering, and com- 
pounding, are participles, each of which equally refers to, and 
governs the subsequent noun, those images ; and that noun again 
is necessarily connected with the following preposition into. 
This instance shows the importance of carefully attending to the 
rules of Grammar and Syntax ; when so pure a writer as Mr. 
Addison could, through inadvertence, be guilty of such an error. 
The construction might easily have been rectified, by disjoining 
the participle retaining from the other two participles in this way : 
" We have the power of retaining those images which we have 
at once received ; and of altering and compounding them into all 
the varieties of picture and vision ;" or better perhaps thus : 
" We have the power of retaining, altering, and compounding 
those images which we have once received ; and of forming them 
into all the varieties of picture and vision." The latter part of 
the sentence is clear and elegant. 

There are few words in the English Language, which are em- 
ployed in a more loose and uncircumscribed sense than those of the 
Fancy and the Imagination. 

There are few words — which are employed. — It had been better, 
if our Author here had said more simply — Few words in the Eng- 
lish Language are employed. Mr. Addison, whose Style is of the 
free and full, rather than the nervous kind, deals, on all occasions, 



230 CRITICISM ON THE [LECT. XX. 

in this extended sort of phraseology. But it is proper only when 
some assertion of consequence is advanced, and which can bear 
an emphasis such as that in the first sentence of the former para- 
graph. On other occasions, these little words, it is, and there are, 
ought to be avoided as redundant and enfeebling. Those of the 
Fancy and the Imagination. The article ought to have been 
omitted here. As he does not mean the powers of the Fancy 
and the Imagination, but the words only, the article certainly 
had no proper place ; neither, indeed, was there any occasion for 
other two words, those of. Better if the sentence had run thus : 
" Few words in the English Language are employed in a more 
loose and uncircumscribed sense, than Fancy and Imagination." 
/ therefore thought it necessary to fix and determine the notion of 
these two words, as I intend to make use of them in the thread of my 
following speculations, that the reader may conceive rightly what is 
the subject which I proceed upon. 

Though fix and determine may appear synonymous words, yet 
a difference between them may be remarked, and they may be 
viewed as applied here, with peculiar delicacy. The Author 
has just said, that the words of which he is speaking were loose 
and uncircumscribed. Fix relates to the first of these, determine 
to the last. We fix what is loose ; that is, we confine the word 
to its proper place, that it may not fluctuate in our imagination, 
and pass from one idea to another ; and we determine what is 
uncircumscribed, that is, we ascertain its termini or limits, we 
draw the circle round it, that we may see its boundaries. For 
we cannot conceive the meaning of a word, nor indeed of any 
other thing, clearly, till we see its limits, and know how far it 
extends. These two words, therefore, have grace and beauty as 
they are here applied; though a writer more frugal of words 
than Mr. Addison would have preferred the single word ascer- 
tain, which conveys, without any metaphor the import of them 
both. 

The notion of these words is somewhat of a harsh phrase, at 
least not so commonly used, as the meaning of these words. As 
I intend to make use of them in the thread of my speculations, this 
is plainly faulty. A sort of Metaphor is improperly mixed with 
words in the literal sense. He might very well have said, as I 
intend to make use of them in my following speculations. This was 
plain language ; but if he chose to borrow an allusion from thread, 
that allusion ought to have been supported ; for there is no con- 
sistency in making use of them in the thread of speculations : and 
indeed, in expressing anything so simple and familiar as this is, 
plain language is always to be preferred <to metaphorical. The 
subject which I proceed upon, is an ungraceful close of a sentence ; 
better, the subject upon which 1 proceed. 

I must therefore desire him to remember, that by the pleasures of 
the Imagination, I mean only such pleasures as arise originally from 
sight, and that I divide these pleasures into two kinds. 



LECT. XX.] SPECTATOR, XO. 411. 231 

As the last sentence began with, / therefore thought it necessary 
to fix, it is careless to begin this sentence in a manner so very 
similar, J must therefore desire him to remember ; especially as the 
small variation of using, on this account, or, for this reason, in 
place of therefore, would have amended the Style. 'When he says, 
/ mean only such pleasures, it may be remarked that the adverb 
only is not in its proper place. It is not intended here to qualify 
the verb mean ; but such pleasures : and therefore should have 
been placed in as close connection as possible with the word 
which it limits or qualifies. The Style becomes more clear and 
neat, when the words are arranged thus : " by the pleasures of 
the Imagination, I mean such pleasures only as arise from sight." 
My design being, first of all to discourse of those primary plea- 
sures of the Imagination, which entirely proceed from such objects as 
are before our eyes ; and, in the next place, to speak of those secon- 
dary pleasures of the Imagination, which flow from the ideas of 
visible objects, when the objects are not actually before the eye, but are 
called up into our memories, or formed into agreeable visions of 
things that are either absent or fictitious. 

It is a great rule in laying down the division of a subject, to 
study neatness and brevity as much as possible. The divisions 
are then more distinctly apprehended, and more easily remem- 
bered. This sentence is not perfectly happy in that respect. It 
is somewhat clogged by a tedious phraseology. My design being 
first of all to discourse, in the next place to speak of, such objects as 
are before our eyes, things that are either absent or fictitious. Sev- 
eral words might have been spared here ; and the Style made 
more neat and compact. 

The pleasures of the Imagination, taken in their full extent, are not 
so gross as those of sense, nor so refined as those of the understanding. 
This sentence is distinct and elegant. 

The last are indeed more preferable, because they are founded on 
some new knowledge or improvement in the mind of man : Yet it 
must be confessed, that those of the Imagination are as great, and as 
transporting as the other. 

In the beginning of this sentence, the phrase more preferable, 
is such a plain inaccuracy, that one wonders how Mr, Addison 
should have fallen into it ; seeing preferable, of itself, expresses 
the comparative degree, and is the same with more eligible or 
more excellent. 

I must observe farther, that the proposition contained in the 
last member of this sentence is neither clear nor neatly expressed, 
it must be confessed that those of the Imagination are as great, and 
as transporting as the other. In the former sentence, he had 
compared three things together ; the pleasures of the Imagina- 
tion, those of Sense, and those of the Understanding. In the 
beginning of this sentence, he had called the pleasures of the 
Understanding, the last: and he ends the sentence, with observing, 
that those of the Imagination are as great and transporting as the 



232 CRITICISM ON THE [LECT. XX. 

other. Now, besides that the other makes not a proper contrast 
with the last, he leaves it ambiguous, whether, by the other, he 
meant the pleasures of the Understanding, or the pleasures of 
Sense ; for it may refer to either by the construction ; though, 
undoubtedly he intended that it should refer to the pleasures of 
the Understanding only. The proposition, reduced to perspi- 
cuous language, runs thus : " Yet it must be confessed, that the 
pleasures of the Imagination, when compared with those of the 
Understanding, are no less great and transporting." 

A beautiful prospect delights the soul, as much as a demonstra- 
tion ; and a description in Homer has charmed more readers than a 
chapter in Aristotle. 

This is good illustration of what he had been asserting, and is 
expressed with that happy and elegant turn for which our Author 
is very remarkable. 

Besides, the pleasures of the Imagination have this advantage, 
above those of the Understanding, that they are more obvious, and 
more easy to be acquired. 

This is also an unexceptionable sentence. 

It is but opening the eye, and the scene enters. 

This sentence is lively and picturesque. By the gaiety and 
briskness which it gives the style, it shows the advantage of 
intermixing such a short sentence as this amidst a run of longer 
ones, which never fails to have a happy effect. I must remark, 
however a small inaccuracy. A scene cannot be said to enter ; 
an actor enters ; but a scene appears or presents itself. 

The colours paint themselves on the fancy, with very little attention 
of thought or application of mind in the beholder. 

This is still a beautiful illustration ; carried on with that 
agreeable floweriness of fancy and Style, which is so well suited 
to those pleasures of the Imagination, of which the author is 
treating. 

We are struck, we know not how, with the symmetry of any thing 
we see, and immediately assent to the beauty of an object, without 
inquiring into the particular causes and occasions of it. 

There is a falling off here from the elegance of the former 
sentences. We assent to the truth of a proposition ; but cannot 
so well be said to assent to the beauty of an object. Acknowledge 
would have expressed the sense with more propriety. The close 
of the sentence too is heavy and ungraceful, the particular causes 
and occasions of it, both particular and occasions are words quite 
superfluous ; and the pronoun it is in some measure ambiguous, 
whether it refers to beauty or to object. It would have been 
some amendment to the Style to have run thus : " We immedi- 
ately acknowledge the beauty of an object, without inquiring 
into the cause of that beauty." 

A man of a polite Imagination is let into a great many pleasures 
that the vulgar are not capable of receiving. 

Polite is a term more commonly applied to manners or be- 



LECT. XX.] SPECTATOR, NO. 411. . 233 

haviour, than to the mind or imagination. There is nothing 
farther to be observed on this sentence, unless the use of that 
for a relative pronoun, instead of which ; an usage which is too 
frequent with Mr. Addison. Which is a much more definite 
word than that, being never employed in any other way than as 
a relative ; whereas that is a word of many senses ; sometimes a 
demonstrative pronoun, often a conjunction. In some cases we ' 
are indeed obliged to use that for a relative, in order to avoid the 
ungraceful repetition of which in the same sentence. But when 
we are laid under no necessity of this kind, which is always the 
preferable word, and certainly was so in this sentence, Pleasures 
ichich the vulgar are not capable of receiving, is much better than 
pleasures that the vulgar, 8fc. 

He can converse with a picture, and find an agreeable companion 
in a statue. He meets with a secret refreshment in a description ; 
and often feels a greater satisfaction in the prospect of fields and 
meadows, than another does in the possession. It gives him, indeed, 
a kind of property in every thing he sees ; and makes the most rude 
uncultivated parts of nature administer to his pleasures ; so that he 
looks upon the world, as it were, in another light, and discovers in 
it a multitude of charms that conceal themselves from the generality 
of mankind. 

All this is very beautiful. The illustration is happy ; and 
the Style runs with the greatest ease and harmony. We see 
no labour, no stiffness, or affectation ; but an author writing 
from the native flow of a gay and pleasing imagination. This 
predominant character of Mr. Addison's manner, far more 
than compensates all those little negligences which we are now 
remarking. Two of these occur in this paragraph. The first 
in the sentence which begins with, It gives him indeed a kind 
of property — To this it, there is no proper antecedent in the 
whole paragraph. In order to gather the meaning, we must 
look back as far as to the third sentence before the first of 
the paragraph, which begins with, A man of a polite imagination. 
This phrase, polite imagination, is the only antecedent to which 
this it can refer; and even that is an improper antecedent, 
as it stands in the genitive case, as the qualification only of 
a man. 

The other instance of negligence, is towards the end of 
the paragraph. So that he looks upon the world, as it were, in 
another light. By another light, Mr. Addison means, a light 
different from that in which other men view the world. But 
though this expression clearly conveyed this meaning to himself 
when writing, it conveys it very indistinctly to others ; and 
is an instance of that sort of inaccuracy, into which in the 
warmth of composition, every writer of a lively imagination is 
apt to fall ; and which can only be remedied by a cool subse- 
quent review. — As it were — is upon most occasions no more 
than an ungraceful palliative, and here there was not the least 

s 



234 CKITICISM ON THE [LECT. XX. 

occasion for it, as he was not about to say anything which re- 
quired a softening of this kind. To say the truth, this last 
sentence, so that he looks upon the world, and what follows, 
had better been wanting altogether. It is no more than an 
unnecessary recapitulation of what had gone before ; a feeble 
adjection to the lively picture he had given of the pleasures 
of the imagination. The paragraph would have ended with 
more spirit at the words immediately preceding ; the uncultivated 
parts of nature administer to his pleasures. 

There are, indeed, but very few who know how to he idle and in- 
nocent, or have a relish of any pleasures that are not criminal; 
every diversion they take is at the expense of some one virtue or 
another, and their very first step out of business is into vice or 
folly. 

Nothing can be more elegant, or more finely turned, than 
this sentence. It is neat, clear, and musical. We could 
hardly alter one word, or disarrange one member, without 
spoiling it. Few sentences are to be found more finished, or 
more happy. 

A man should endeavour, therefore, to make the sphere of his 
innocent pleasures as wide as possible, that he may retire into 
them with safety, and find in them such a satisfaction as a wise 
man would not blush to take. 

This also is a good sentence, and gives occasion to no ma- 
terial remark. 

Of this nature are those of the imagination, which do not 
require such a bent of thought as is necessary to our more serious 
employments, nor, at the same time, suffer the mind to sink into 
that indolence and remissness, which are apt to accompany our 
more sensual delights ; but, like a gentle exercise to the faculties, 
awaken them from sloth and idleness, without putting them upon any 
labour or difficulty. 

The beginning of this sentence is not correct, and affords 
an instance of a period too loosely connected, with the pre- 
ceding one. Of this nature, says he, are those of the imagina- 
tion. We might ask of what nature ? For it had not been 
the scope of the preceding sentence to describe the nature of 
any set of pleasures. He had said, that it was every man's 
duty to make the sphere of his innocent pleasures as wide as 
possible, in order that, within that sphere, he might find a safe 
retreat and a laudable satisfaction. The transition is loosely 
made, by beginning the next sentence with saying, Of this 
nature are those of the imagination. It had been better, if, keep- 
ing in view the governing object of the preceding sentence, he 
had said, " This advantage we gain," or, " This satisfaction we 
enjoy, by means of the pleasures of imagination." The rest 
of the sentence is abundantly correct. 

We might here add, that the pleasures of the fancy are more 
conducive to health than those of the understanding, which are 



LECT. XX.] SPECTATOR NO. 411. 235 

worked out by dint of thinking) and attended with too violent a la- 
bour of the brain. 

On this sentence nothing occurs deserving of remark, except 
that worked out by dint of thinking, is a phrase which borders too 
much on vulgar and colloquial language, to be proper for being 
employed in a polished composition. 

Delightful scenes, whether in nature, painting, or poetry, have a 
kindly influence on the body, as well as the mind, and not only serve 
to clear and brighten the imagination, but are able to disperse grief 
and melancholy, and to set the animal spirits in pleasing and agree- 
able motions. For this reason Sir Francis Bacon, in his Essay 
upon Health, has not thought it improper to prescribe to his reader 
a poem, or a prospect, where he particularly dissuades him from 
knotty and subtile disquisitions, and advises him to pursue studies 
that fill the mind with splendid and illustrious objects, as histories, 
fables, and contemplations of nature. 

In the latter of these two sentences, a member of the period 
is altogether out of its place ; which gives the whole sentence a 
harsh and disjointed cast, and serves to illustrate the rules 
I formerly gave concerning arrangement. The wrong placed 
member which I point at is this ; where he particularly dissuades 
him from knotty and subtile disquisitions ; these words should, un- 
doubtedly, have been placed not Avhere they stand, but thus : 
Sir Francis Bacon, in his Essay upon Health, where he parti- 
cularly dissuades the reader from knotty and subtile speculations, 
has not thought it improper to prescribe to him, 8fc. This arrange- 
ment reduces every thing into proper order. 

/ have in this Paper, by way of introduction, settled the notion of 
those pleasures of the imagination, which are the subject of my pre- 
sent undertaking, and endeavoured, by several considerations, to 
recommend to my readers the pursuit of those pleasures ; I shall in 
my next Paper, examine the several sources from whence these plea- 
sures are derived. 

These two concluding sentences afford examples of the pro- 
per collocation of circumstances in a period. I formerly showed, 
that it is often a matter of difficulty to dispose of them in 
such a manner, as that they shall not embarrass the principal 
subject of the sentence. In the sentences before us several 
of these incidental circumstances necessarily come in — By way 
of introduction — by several considerations — in this Paper — in the 
next Paper. All which are, with great propriety, managed 
by our author. It will be found, upon trial, that there were no 
other parts of the sentence, in which they could have been 
placed to equal advantage. Had he said, for instance, " I have 
settled the notion (rather, the meaning) — " of those pleasures of 
the imagination, which are the subject of my present under- 
taking, by way of introduction in this Paper, and endeavoured 
to recommend the pursuit of those pleasures to my readers 
by several considerations;" we must be sensible that the sen- 

S 2 



236 CEITICISM ON THE [LECT. XXI. 

tence, thus clogged with circumstances in the wrong place, 
would neither have been so neat nor so clear, as it is by 
the present construction. 
4. 



LECTURE XXI. 

CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF THE STL YE IN NO. 412 OF THE 

SPECTATOR. 

The observations which have occurred in reviewing that 
Paper of Mr. Addison's which was the subject of the last 
Lecture, sufficiently show, that in the writings of an author 
of the most happy genius and distinguished talents, inaccuracies 
may sometimes be found. Though such inaccuracies may be 
overbalanced by so many beauties, as render Style highly 
pleasing and agreeable upon the whole, yet it must be desirable 
to every writer to avoid, as far as he can, inaccuracy of any kind. 
As the subject therefore is of importance, I have thought it 
might be useful to carry on this criticism throughout two or 
three subsequent Papers of the Spectator. At the same time 
I must intimate that the Lectures on these Papers are solely 
intended for such as are applying themselves to the study 
of English Style. I pretend not to give instruction to those 
who are already well acquainted with the powers of language. 
To them my remarks may prove unedifying ; to some they 
may seem tedious and minute ; but to such as have not yet 
made all the proficiency which they desire in elegance of Style, 
strict attention to the composition and structure of sentences 
cannot fail to prove of considerable benefit: and though my 
remarks on Mr. Addison should, in any instance, be thought 
ill-founded, they will, at least, serve the purpose of leading 
them into the train of making proper remarks themselves.* 
I proceed, therefore, to the examination of the subsequent 
Paper, No. 412. 

/ shall first consider those pleasures of the imagination, which 
arise from the actual view and survey of outward objects : and 

* If there be readers who think any farther apology requisite for my adventuring to 
criticise the sentences of so eminent an author as Mr. Addison, I must take notice, that 
I was naturally led to it by the circumstances of that part of the kingdom where these 
Lectures were read ; where the ordinary spoken language often differs much from what 
is used by good English authors. Hence it occurred to me, as a proper method of cor- 
recting any peculiarities of dialect, to direct students of eloquence to analyse and 
examine, with particular attention, the structure of Mr. Addison's sentences. Those 
papers of the Spectator, which are the subject of the following Lectures, were accord- 
ingly given out in exercise to students, to be thus examined and analysed ; and several 
of the observations which follow, both on the beauties and blemishes of this author, 
were suggested by the observations given to me in consequence of the exercise 
prescribed. 



LECT. XXI.] SPECTATOR, NO. 412. 237 

these, I think, all proceed from the sight of what is great, un- 
common, or beautiful. 

This sentence gives occasion for no material remark. It 
is simple and distinct. The words which he here uses, view and 
survey, are not altogether synonymous ; as the former may be 
supposed to import mere inspection ; the latter more deli- 
berate examination. Yet they lie so near to one another 
in meaning, that in the present case, any one of them, perhaps, 
would have been sufficient. The epithet actual, is introduced, 
in order to mark more strongly the distinction between what our 
author calls the primary pleasures of imagination, which arise 
from immediate view, and the secondary, which arise from 
remembrance or description. 

There may, indeed, he something so terrible or offensive, that the 
horror or loathsomeness of an object may overbear the pleasure 
which results from its novelty, greatness, or beauty; but still there 
icill be such a mixture of delight in the very disgust it gives 
us, as any of these three qualifications are most conspicuous and 
prevailing. 

This sentence must be acknowledged to be an unfortunate 
one. The sense is obscure and embarrassed, and the expression 
loose and irregular. The beginning of it is perplexed by the 
wrong position of the words something and object. The natural 
arrangement would have been, There may, indeed, be something 
in an object so terrible or offensive, that the horror or loathsomeness 
of it may overbear. These two epithets, horror or loathsomeness, 
are awkwardly joined together. Loathsomeness is, indeed, a 
quality which may be ascribed to an object ; but horror is not; 
it is a feeling excited in the mind. The language would have 
been much more correct, had our author said, There may, indeed, be 
something in an object so terrible or offensive, that the horror or 
disgust which it excites may overbear. The two first epithets, 
terrible or offensive, would then have expressed the qualities of an 
object ; the latter, horror or disgust, the corresponding senti- 
ments which these qualities produce in us. Loathsomeness was 
the most unhappy word he could have chosen ; for to be loath- 
some, is to be odious, and seems totally to exclude any mixture of 
delight, which he afterwards supposes may be found in the object. 
In the latter part of the sentence there are several inaccura- 
cies. When he says, there will be such a mixture of delight in the 
very disgust it gives us, as any of these three qualifications are most 
conspicuous-, the construction is defective, and seems hardly 
grammatical. He meant assuredly to say, such a mixture of de- 
light as is proportioned to the degree in which any of these three qua- 
lifications are most conspicuous. We know that there may be a 
mixture of pleasant and of disagreeable feelings excited by the 
same object; yet it appears inaccurate to say, that there is any 
delight in the very disgust. The plural verb are, is improperly 
joined to any of these three qualifications ; for as any is here used 



238 CRITICISM ON THE [LECT. XXI. 

distributively, and means any one of these three qualifications, the 
corresponding verb ought to have been singular. The order in 
which the two last words are placed, should have been reversed, 
and made to stand -prevailing and conspicuous. They are con- 
spicuous because they prevail. 

By greatness, I do not only mean the bulk of any single object, 
but the largeness of a whole view, considered as one entire piece. 

In a former Lecture, when treating of the Structure of 
Sentences, I quoted this sentence as an instance of the careless 
manner in which adverbs are sometimes interjected in the midst 
of a period. Only, as it is here placed, appears to be a limita- 
tion of the following verb mean. The question might be put, 
What more does he than only mean ? As the Author, undoubt- 
edly, intended it to refer to the bulk of a single object, it would 
have been placed with more propriety, after these words : 1 do 
not mean the bulk of any single object only, but the largeness of a 
whole view. As the following phrase, considered as one entire 
piece, seems to be somewhat deficient, both in dignity and pro- 
priety, perhaps this adjection might have been altogether 
omitted, and the sentence have closed with fully as much 
advantage at the word view. 

Such are the prospects of an open champaign country, a vast 
uncultivated desert, of huge heaps of mountains, high rocks and preci- 
pices, or a wide expanse of waters, where we are not struck with the 
novelty or beauty of the sight, but with that rude kind of magnifi- 
cence which appears in many of these stupendous works of nature. 

This sentence, in the main, is beautiful. The objects pre- 
sented are all of them noble, selected with judgment, arranged 
with propriety, and accompanied with proper epithets. We 
must, however, observe that the sentence is too loosely, and not 
very grammatically, connected with the preceding one. He 
says, such are the prospects ; such, signifies of that nature or 
quality, which necessarily presupposes some adjective, or word 
descriptive of a quality going before, to which it refers. But, 
in the foregoing sentence, there is no such adjective. He had 
spoken of greatness in the abstract only ; and, therefore, such 
has no distinct antecedent to which we can refer it. The sen- 
tence would have been introduced with more grammatical pro- 
priety, by saying, To this class belong, or, under this head are 
ranged the prospects, Sfc. The of, which is prefixed to huge heaps 
of mountains, is misplaced, and has, perhaps, been an error in 
the printing, as either all the particulars, here enumerated, 
should have had this mark of the genitive, or it should have 
been prefixed to none but the first. When, in the close of 
the sentence, the Author speaks of that rude magnificence which 
appears in many of these stupendous works of nature, he had 
better have omitted- the word many, which seems to except 
some of them. Whereas, in his general proposition, he un- 
doubtedly meant to include all the stupendous works he had 



LECT. XXI.] SPECTATOR, NO. 412. 239 

enumerated; and there is no question that, in all of them, 
a rude magnificence appears. 

Our imagination loves to be filled with an object, or to grasp 
at any thing that is too big for its capacity. We are flung into 
a pleasing astonishment at such unbounded views ; and feel a 
delightful stillness and amazement in the soul, at the apprehension 
of them. 

The Language here is elegant, and several of the expressions 
remarkably happy. There is nothing which requires any ani- 
madversion except the close, at the apprehension of them. Not 
only is this a languid enfeebling conclusion of a sentence, 
otherwise beautiful, but the apprehension of views is a phrase 
destitute of all propriety, and, indeed, scarcely intelligible. 
Had this adjection been entirely omitted, and the sentence 
been allowed to close with stillness and amazement in the soul, 
it would have been a great improvement. Nothing is fre- \, 
quently more hurtful to the grace or vivacity of a period, than 
superfluous dragging words at the conclusion. 

The mind of man naturally hates every thing that looks like 
a restraint upon it, and is apt to fancy itself under a sort of con- 
finement, when the sight is pent up in a narrow compass, and 
shortened on every side by the neighbourhood of walls or moun- 
tains. On the contrary, a spacious horizon is an image of liberty, 
where the eye has room to range abroad, to expatiate at large 
on the immensity of its views, and to lose itself amidst the variety 
of objects that offer themselves to its observation. Such wide and 
undetermined prospects are as pleasing to the fancy, as the specula- 
tions of eternity, or infinitude, are to the understanding. 

Our Author's Style appears here, in all that native beauty 
which cannot be too much praised. The numbers flow smoothly, 
and with a graceful harmony. The words which he has chosen 
carry a certain amplitude and fulness, well suited to the nature 
of the subject; and the members of the periods rise in a 
gradation, accommodated to the rise of the thought. The eye 
first ranges abroad ; then expatiates at large on the immensity of 
its views ; and, at last, loses itself amidst the variety of objects that 
offer themselves to its observation. The fancy is elegantly con- 
trasted with the understanding, prospects with speculations, and 
wide and undetermined prospects with speculations of eternity and 
infinitude. 

But if there be a beauty or uncommonness joined with this 
grandeur, as in a troubled ocean, a heaven adorned with stars and 
meteors, or a spacious landscape cut out into rivers, woods, rocks, 
and meadows, the pleasure still grows upon us, as it arises from 
more than a single principle. 

The article prefixed to beauty, in the beginning of this sen- 
tence, might have been omitted, and the Style have run, per- 
haps, to more advantage thus : But if beauty, or uncommonness, 
be joined to this grandeur. A landscape cut out into rivers, woods, 



240 CHITICISM ON THE [l/IXT. XXr. 

&c. seems unseasonably to imply an artificial formation, and 
would have been better expressed by diversified with rivers, 
woods, &c. 

Every thing that is new or uncommon raises a pleasure in the 
imagination, because it Jills the soul with an agreeable surprise, 
gratifies its curiosity, and gives it an idea of which it was not 
before possessed. We are, indeed, so often conversant with one 
set of objects, and tired out with so many repeated shows of the 
same things, that whatever is new or uncommon contributes a little 
to vary human life, and to divert our minds for a while, with the 
strangeness of its appearance. It serves us for a kind of re- 
freshment, and takes off from that satiety we are apt to complain 
of in our usual and ordinary entertainments. 

The Style in these sentences flows in an easy and agreeable 
manner. A severe critic might point out some expressions that 
would bear being retrenched. But this would alter the genius 
and character of Mr. Addison's Style. We must always 
remember, that good composition admits of being carried on 
under many different forms. Style must not be reduced to one 
precise standard. One writer may be as agreeable, by a pleas- 
ing diffuseness, when the subject bears, and his genius prompts 
it, as another by a concise and forcible manner. It is fit, 
however, to observe, that in the beginning of those sentences 
which we have at present before us, the phrase, raises a pleasure 
in the imagination is unquestionably too flat and feeble, and 
might easily be amended, by saying, affords pleasure to the ima- 
gination; and towards the end there are two ofs which grate 
harshly on the ear, in that phrase, takes off from that satiety we 
are apt to complain of; where the correction is as easily made 
as in the other case, by substituting diminishes that satiety of 
which we are apt to complain. Such instances show the advan- 
tage of frequent reviews of what we have written, in order to 
give proper correctness and polish to our Language. 

It is this which bestows charms on a monster, and makes even the 
imperfections of nature please us. It is this that recommends variety, 
where the mind is every instant called off to something new, and the 
attention not suffered to dwell too long, and waste itself, on any par- 
ticidar object. It is this likewise, that improves what is great or 
beautiful, and makes it afford the mind a double entertainment. 

Still the Style proceeds with perspicuity, grace, and harmony. 
The full and ample assertion, with which each of these sentences 
is introduced, frequent on many occasions, with our Author, is 
here proper and seasonable ; as it was his intention to magnify, 
as much as possible, the effects of novelty and variety, and to draw 
our attention to them. His frequent use of that, instead of which, 
is another peculiarity of his Style ; but, on this occasion in par- 
ticular, cannot be much commended, as, it is this which, seems in 
every view, to be better than, it is this that, three times repeated. 
I must likewise take notice, that the antecedent to, it is this, 



LECT. XXI.] SPECTATOR, NO. 412. 241 

when critically considered, is not altogether proper. It refers, 
as we discover by the sense, to whatever is new or uncommon. But 
as it is not good language to say, whatever is new bestows charms 
on a monster, one cannot avoid thinking that our Author had 
done better to have begun the first of these three sentences with 
saying, It is novelty which bestoivs charms on a monster, &c. 

Graves, fields, and meadows, are at any season of the year 
pleasant to look upon, but never so much as in the opening of the 
Spring, when they are all new and fresh, with their first gloss 
upon them, and not yet too much accustomed and familiar to the 
eye. 

In this expression, never so much as in the opening of the Spring, 
there appears to be a small error in grammar ; for when the 
construction is filled up, it must be read, never so much pleasant. 
Had he, to avoid this, said never so much so, the grammatical 
error would have been prevented, but the language would have 
been awkward. Better to have said, but never so agreeable as in 
the opening of the Spring. We readily say, the eye is accus- 
tomed to objects; but to say, as our Author has done at the close 
of the sentence, that objects are accustomed to the eye, can 
scarcely be allowed in a prose composition. 

For this reason there is nothing that more enlivens a prospect 
than rivers, jetteaus, or falls of water, where the scene is perpe- 
tually shifting, and entertaining the sight every moment with some- 
thing that is new. We are quickly tired with looking at hills and 
valleys, where every thing continues fixed and settled in the same 
place and posture, but find our thoughts a little agitated and 
relieved at the sight of such objects as are ever in motion, and 
sliding away from beneath the eye of the beholder. 

The first of these sentences is connected in too loose a manner 
with that which immediately preceded it. When he says, For this 
reason there is nothing that more enlivens, 8fc. we are entitled to 
look for the reason in what he had just before said. But there 
w T e find no reason for what he is now going to assert, except that 
groves and meadows are most pleasant in the Spring. We know 
that he has been speaking of the pleasure produced by Novelty 
and Variety, and our minds naturally recur to this, as the reason 
here alluded to ; but his language does not properly express it. 
It is indeed one of the defects of this amiable writer, that his 
sentences are often too negligently connected with one another. 
His meaning, upon the whole, we gather with ease from the 
tenour of his discourse. Yet this negligence prevents his sense 
from striking us with that force and evidence which a more accu- 
rate juncture of parts would have produced. Bating this 
inaccuracy, these two sentences, especially the latter, are 
remarkably elegant and beautiful. The close, in particular, is 
uncommonly fine, and carries as much expressive harmony as the 
language can admit. It seems to paint w^hat he is describing at 
once to the eye and the ear. — Such objects as are ever in motion, 



242 CRITICISM ON THE [LECT. XXI. 

and sliding away from beneath the eye of the beholder. — Indeed, 
notwithstanding those small errors, which the strictness of critical 
examination obliges me to point out, it may be safely pronounced, 
that the two paragraphs which we have now considered in this 
paper, the one concerning greatness and the other concerning 
novelty, are extremely worthy of Mr. Addison, and exhibit a 
Style, which they who successfully imitate, may esteem them- 
selves happy. 

But there is nothing that makes its way more directly to the 
soul than Beauty, which immediately diffuses a secret satisfaction 
and complacency through the imagination, and gives a finishing 
to any thing that is great or uncommon. The very first discovery 
of it strikes the mind with an inward joy, and spreads a cheerful- 
ness and delight through all its faculties. 

Some degree of verbosity may be here discovered, as phrases 
are repeated which seem little more than the echo of one an- 
other ; such as diffusing satisfaction and complacency through the 
imagination — striking the mind with inward joy — spreading cheerful- 
ness and delight through all its faculties. At the same time, I 
readily admit that this full and flowing Style, even though it 
carry some redundancy, is not unsuitable to the gaiety of the 
subject on which the Author is entering, and is more allowable 
here than it would have been on some other occasions. 

There is not, perhaps, any real beauty or deformity more in one 
piece of matter than another ; because we might have been so made, 
that whatever now appears loathsome to us, might have shown 
itself agreeable ; but we find by experience, that there are several 
modifications of matter which the mind, without any previous con- 
sideration, pronounces at first sight beautiful or deformed. 

In this sentence there is nothing remarkable, in any view, to 
draw our attention. We may observe only, that the word more, 
towards the beginning, is not in its proper place, and that the 
preposition in is wanting before another. The phrase ought to 
have stood thus — Beauty or deformity in one piece of matter more 
than in another. 

Thus we see that every different species of sensible creatures has 
its different notions of Beauty, and that each of them is most 
affected with the beauties of its own kind. This is no where more 
remarkable than in birds of the same shape and proportion, when 
we often see the male determined in his courtship by the single 
grain or tincture of a feather, and never discovering any charms 
but in the colour of its species. 

Neither is there here any particular elegance or felicity of lan- 
guage. — Different sense of Beauty would have been a more 
proper expression to have been applied to irrational creatures, 
than as it stands, different notions of Beauty. In the close of the 
second sentence, when the Author says, colour of its species, he 
is guilty of a considerable inaccuracy in changing the gender, as 
he had said in the same sentence that the male was determined in 
his courtship. 

■ 

■ 



LECT. XXI.] SPECTATOR, NO. 412. 243 

There is a second kind of Beauty, that we find in the several 
products of art and nature, which does not work m the imagina- 
tion with that warmth and violence, as the beanty that appears in 
our proper species, but is apt, however, to raise in us a secret 
delight, and a hind of fondness for the places or objects in which 
we discover it. 

Still, I am sorry to say, we find little to praise. As in his 
enunciation of the subject, when beginning the former para- 
graph, he appeared to have been treating of Beauty in general, 
in distinction from greatness or novelty ; this second kind of 
Beauty, of which he here speaks, comes upon us in a sort of 
surprise, and it is only by degrees we learn that formerly he had 
no more in view than the beauty which the different species of 
sensible creatures find in one another. This second kind of 
Beauty, he says, we find in the several products of art and nature. 
He undoubtedly means, not in all, but in several of the products 
of art and nature ; and ought so to have expressed himself ; and 
in the place of products to have used also the more proper word 
productions. When he adds, that this kind of Beauty does not 
work in the imagination with that warmth and violence, as the beauty 
that appears in our proper species ; the language would certainly 
have been more pure and elegant if he had said, that it does not 
work upon the imagination with such warmth and violence, as the 
beauty that appears in our own species. 

This consists either in the gaiety or variety of colours, in the 
symmetry and proportion of parts, in the arrangement and dis- 
position of bodies, or in a just mixture and concurrence of all 
together. Among these several hinds of Beauty, the eye takes most 
delight in colours. 

To the language here I see no objection that can be made. 

We no where meet with a more glorious or pleasing show in 
nature than what appears in the heavens at the rising and setting 
of the sun, which is wholly made up of those different stains of 
light that show themselves in clouds of a different situation. 

The chief ground of criticism on this sentence, is the dis- 
jointed situation of the relative which. Grammatically, it refers 
to the rising and setting of the sun. But the author meant, that 
it should refer to the show which appears in the heavens at that 
time. It is too common among authors, when they are writing 
without much care, to make such particles as this, and which, 
refer not to any particular antecedent word, but to the tenour of 
some phrase, or perhaps the scope of some whole sentence, which 
has gone before. This practice saves them trouble in marshalling 
their words, and arranging a period : but though it may leave 
their meaning intelligible, yet it renders that meaning much 
less perspicuous, determined, and precise than it might otherwise 
have been. The error I have pointed out, might have been 
avoided by a small alteration in the construction of the sentence, 
after some such manner as this : We no where meet with a more 



244 CKITICISM ON THE [LECT. XXT. 

glorious and pleasing show in nature than what is formed in the heavens 
at the rising and setting of the sun, by the different stains of light 
which show themselves in clouds of different situations. Our au- 
thor writes, in clouds of a different situation, by which he means, 
clouds that differ in situation from each other. But as this is 
neither the obvious nor grammatical meaning of his words, it 
was necessary to change the expression, as I have done, into the 
plural number. 

For this reason we find the poets, who are always addressing 
themselves to the imagination, borrowing more of their epithets 
from colours than from any other topic. 

On this sentence nothing occurs, except a remark similar to 
what was made before, of loose connexion with the sentence 
which precedes. For, though he begins with saying, For this 
reason, the foregoing sentence, which was employed about the 
clouds and the sun, gives no reason for the general proposition 
he now lays down. The reason to which he refers was given 
two sentences before, when he observed that the eye takes more 
delight in colours than in any other beauty ; and it was with 
that sentence that the present one should have stood immediately 
connected. 

As the fancy delights in every thing that is great, strange, or 
beautiful, and is still more pleased, the more it finds of these per- 
fections in the same object, so it is capable of receiving a new satis- 
faction by the assistance of another sense. 

Another sense here, means grammatically, another sense than 
fancy. For there is no other thing in the period to which this 
expression, another sense, can at all be opposed. He had not 
for some time made mention of any sense whatever. He forgot 
to add, what was undoubtedly in his thoughts, another sense than 
that of sight. 

Thus any continued sound, as the music of birds, or a fall of 
water, awakens every moment the mind of the beholder, and makes 
him more attentive to the several beauties of the place which lie 
before him. Thus, if there arises a fragrancy of smells or perfumes, 
they heighten the pleasures of the imagination, and make even the 
colours and verdure of the landscape appear more agreeable : for 
the ideas of both senses recommend each other, and are pltasanter 
together than when they enter the mind separately ; as the differ- 
ent colours of a picture, when they are well disposed, set off one 
another, and receive additional beauty from the advantage of their 
situation. 

Whether Mr. Addison's theory here be just or not may be 
questioned. A continued sound, such as that of a fall of water, 
is so far from awakening every moment the mind of the beholder, 
that nothing is more likely to lull him asleep. It may, indeed, 
please the imagination, and heighten the beauties of the scene ; 
but it produces this eifect, by a soothing, not by an "awakening 
influence. With regard to the Style, nothing appears exception- 



LECT. XXII.] SPECTATOR, NO. 413. 245 

able. The flow, both of language and of ideas, is very agreeable. 
The author continues to the end the same pleasing train of 
thought which had run through the rest of the Paper ; and 
leaves us agreeably employed in comparing together different 
degrees of Beauty. 



LECTUKE XXII. 



CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF THE STYLE IN NO. 413, OF THE 

SPECTATOR. 



Though in yesterday s Paper we considered how every thing 
that is great, new, or beautiful, is apt to affect the imagination 
with pleasure, we must own, that it is impossible for us to assign 
the necessary cause of this pleasure, because we know neither the 
nature of an idea, nor the substance of a human soul, which might 
help us to discover the conformity or disagreeableness of the one to 
the other ; and therefore, for want of such a light, all that we can 
do in speculations of this hind, is, to reflect on those operations of 
the soul that are most agreeable, and to range under their proper 
heads what is pleasing or displeasing to the mind, without being 
able to trace out the several necessary and efficient causes from 
whence the pleasure or displeasure arises. 

This sentence, considered as an introductory one, must be 
acknowledged to be very faulty. An introductory sentence 
should never contain any thing that can in any degree fatigue 
or puzzle the reader. When an author is entering on a new 
branch of his subject, informing us of what he has done, and 
what he purposes farther to do, we naturally expect that he 
should express himself in the simplest and most perspicuous 
manner possible. But the sentence now before us is crowded 
and indistinct; containing three separate propositions, which, 
as I shall afterwards show, required separate sentences to unfold 
them. Mr. Addison's chief excellency as a writer lay in de- 
scribing and painting. There he is great ; but in methodizing 
and reasoning he is not so eminent. As, besides the general 
fault of prolixity and indistinctness, this sentence contains seve- 
ral inaccuracies, I shall be obliged to enter into a minute dis- 
cussion of its structure and parts ; a discussion which to many 
readers will appear tedious, and which therefore they will 
naturally pass over ; but which to those who are studying com- 
position, I hope may prove of some benefit. 

Though in yesterday' s Paper we considered. — The import of 
though is notioithstanding that. When it appears in the beginning 
of a sentence, its relative generally is yet ; and it is employed to 



246 CRITICISM ON THE [LECT. XXII. 

warn us, after we have been informed of some truth, that we are 
not to infer from it some other thing which we might perhaps 
have expected to follow: as, "Though virtue be the only road 
to happiness, yet it does not permit the unlimited gratification 
of our desires." Now it is plain, that there was no such oppo- 
sition between the subject of yesterday's Paper, and what the 
author is now going to say, between his asserting a fact, and his 
not being able to assign the cause of that fact, has rendered the 
use of this adversative particle though either necessary or proper 
in the introduction. — We considered how every thing that is grea f , 
new, or beautiful, is apt to affect the imagination with pleasure. 
— The adverb how signifies, either the means by which, or the 
manner in which, something is done. But, in truth, neither one 
nor the other of these had been considered by our author. He 
had illustrated the fact alone, that they do affect the imagination 
with pleasure ; and with respect to the quomodo, or the how, he 
is so far from having considered it, that he is just now going to 
show that it cannot be explained, and that we must rest con- 
tented with the knowledge of the fact alone, and of its purpose 
or final cause. We must own that it is impossible for us to assign 
the necessary cause (he means what is more commonly called the 
efficient cause) of his pleasure, because we know neither the nature 
of an idea, nor the substance of a human soul. — The substance of 
a human soul is certainly a very uncouth expression, and there 
appears no reason why he should have varied from the word 
nature, which would have been equally applicable to idea and to 
soul. 

Which might help us, our author proceeds, to discover the con- 
formity or disagreeableness of the one to the other. — The which, at 
the beginning of this member of the period, is surely ungram- 
matical, as it is a relative, without any antecedent in all the sen- 
tence. It refers, by the construction to the nature of an idea, or 
the substance of the human soul ; but this is by no means the 
reference which the author intended. His meaning is, that 
our knowing the nature of an idea, and the substance of a human 
soul, might help us to discover the conformity or disagreeableness 
of the one to the other: and therefore the syntax absolutely 
required the word knowledge to have been inserted as the ante- 
cedent to which I have before remarked, and the remark 
deserves to be repeated, that nothing is a more certain sign of 
careless composition than to make such relatives as which not 
refer to any precise expression, but carry a loose and vague 
relation to the general strain of what had gone before. When 
our sentences run into this form we may be assured there is 
something in the construction of them that requires alteration. 
The phrase of discovering the conformity or disagreeableness of the 
one to the other is likewise exceptionable, for disagreeableness neither 
forms a proper contrast to the other word conformity, nor expresses 
what the author meant here (as far as any meaning can be gathered 



LECT. XXII.] SPECTATOR, NO. 413. 247 

from his words), that is, a certain unsuitableness or want of con- 
formity to the nature of the soul. To say the truth, this mem- 
ber of the sentence had much better have been omitted altogether. 
The conformity or disagreeableness of an idea to the substance of 
a human soul, is a phrase which conveys to the mind no distinct 
nor intelligible conception whatever. The author had before 
given a sufficient reason for his not assigning the efficient cause 
of those pleasures of the imagination, because we neither know 
the nature of our own ideas nor of the soul : and this farther 
discussion about the conformity or disagreeableness of the nature 
of the one, to the substance of the other, affords no clear nor 
useful illustration. 

And therefore, the sentence goes on, for want of such a light, 
all that we can do in speculations of this kind, is to reflect on those 
operations of the soul that are most agreeable, and to range under 
their proper heads ivhat is pleasing or displeasing to the mind. — The 
two expressions in the beginning of this member, therefore, and, 
for want of such a light, evidently refer to the same thing, and 
are quite synonymous. One or other of them, therefore, had 
better have been omitted. Instead of to range under their proper 
heads, the language would have been smoother, if their had been 
left out. Without being able to trace out the several necessary and 
efficient causes from whence the pleasure or displeasure arises. The 
expression, from ivhence, though seemingly justified by very 
frequent usage, is taxed by Dr. Johnson as a vicious mode of 
speech ; seeing whence alone has all the power of from whence, 
which therefore appears an unnecessary reduplication. I am 
inclined to think, that the whole of this last member of the sen- 
tence had better have been dropped. The period might have 
closed with full propriety, at the words, pleasing or displeasing to 
the mind. All that follows, suggests no idea that had not been 
fully conveyed in the preceding part of the sentence. It is a 
mere expletive adjection which might be omitted, not only with- 
out injury to the meaning, but to the great relief of a sentence 
already labouring under the multitude of words. 

Having now finished the analysis of this long sentence, I am 
inclined to be of opinion, that if, on any occasion, we can adven- 
ture to alter Mr. Addison's Style, it may be done to advantage 
here, by breaking down this period in the following manner : " In 
yesterday's Paper, we have shown that every thing which is great, 
new, or beautiful, is apt to affect the imagination with pleasure. 
We must own that it is impossible for us to assign the efficient 
cause of this pleasure, because we know not the nature either of 
an idea, or of the human soul. All that we can do, therefore, in 
speculations of this kind, is to reflect on the operations of the 
soul, which are most agreeable, and to range, under proper heads, 
what is pleasing or displeasing to the mind." — We proceed now 
to the examination of the following sentences. 

Final causes lie more bare and open to our observation, as there 



V 



248 CRITICISM ON THE [LECT. XXII. 

are often a great variety that belong to the same effect ; and these, 
though they are not altogether so satisfactory, are generally more 
useful, than the other, as they give us greater occasion of admiring 
the goodness and wisdom of the first contriver. 

Though some difference might be traced between the sense of 
bare and open, yet as they are here employed, they are so nearly 
synonymous, that one of them was sufficient. It would have 
been enough to have said, Final causes lie more open to observa- 
tion. One can scarcely help observing here, that the obvious- 
ness of final causes does not proceed, as Mr. Addison supposes, 
from a variety of them concurring in the same effect, which is 
often not the case ; but from our being able to ascertain more 
clearly, from our own experience, the congruity of a final cause 
with the circumstances of our condition ; whereas the constituent 
parts of subjects, whence efficient causes proceed, lie for the 
most part beyond the reach of our faculties. But as this remark 
respects the thought more than the Style, it is sufficient for us to 
observe, that when he says, a great variety that belong to the same 
effect, the expression, strictly considered, is not alogether proper. 
The accessory is properly said to belong to the principal ; not 
the principal to the accessory. Now an effect is considered as 
the accessory or consequence of its cause ; and therefore, though 
we might well say a variety of effects belong to the same cause, 
it seems not so proper to say, that a variety of causes belong to 
the same effect. 

One of the final causes of our delight in anything that is great 
may be this : The supreme author of our being has so formed the 
soul of man, that nothing but himself can be its last, adequate, 
and proper happiness. Because, therefore, a great part of our 
happiness, must arise from the contemplation of his being, that he 
might give our souls a just relish of such a contemplation, he has 
made them naturally delight in the apprehension of what is great 
or unlimited. 

The concurrence of two conjunctions, because, therefore, forms 
rather a harsh and unpleasing beginning of the last of these sen- 
tences; and, in the close, one would think, that the author 
might have devised a happier word than apprehension, to be 
applied to what is unlimited. But that I may not be thought 
7 hypercritical, I shall make no farther observation on these 
sentences. 

Our admiration, which is a very pleasing motion of the mind, 
immediately rises at the consideration of any object that takes 
up a good deal of room in the fancy, and by consequence, will im- 
prove into the highest pitch of astonishment and devotion, when 
we contemplate his nature, that is neither circumscribed by time 
nor place, nor to be comprehended by the largest capacity of a 
created being. 

Here, our author's Style rises beautifully along with the 
thought. However inaccurate he may sometimes be when coolly 



LECT. XXII.] SPECTATOR, NO. 413. 249 

philosophizing, yet, whenever his fancy is awakened by descrip- 
tion, or his mind, as here, warmed with some glowing sentiment, 
he presently becomes great, and discovers in his language, the 
hand of a master. Every one must observe, with what facility 
this period is constructed. The words are long and majestic. 
The members rise one above another, and conduct the sentence, 
at last, to that full and harmonious close, which leaves upon the 
mind such an impression as the Author intended to leave, of 
something uncommonly great, awful, and magnificent. 

He has annexed a secret pleasure to the idea of anything that is 
new or uncommon, that he might encourage us in the pursuit of 
knowledge, and engage us to search into the wonders of creation ; 
for every new idea brings such a pleasure along with it, as rewards 
the pains we have taken in its acquisition, and consequently serves 
as a motive to pat us upon fresh discoveries. 

The Language, in this sentence, is clear and precise ; only we 
cannot but observe in this, and the two following sentences, 
which are constructed in the same manner, a strong proof of Mr. 
Addison's unreasonable partiality to the particle that, in prefer- 
ence to which — annexed a secret pleasure to the idea of anything 
that is new or uncommon, that he might encourage us. Here the 
first that stands for a relative pronoun, and the next that, at the 
distance only of four words, is a conjunction. This confusion of 
sounds serves to embarrass Style. Much better, sure, to have 
said, the idea of anything which is new or uncommon, that he might 
encourage. The expression with which the sentence concludes, 
a motive to put us upon fresh discoveries, is flat, and, in some 
degree, improper. He should have said, put us upon making 
fresh discoveries, or rather, serves as a motive inciting us to make 
fresh discoveries. 

He has made every thing that is beautiful in our own species, 
pleasant, that all creatures might be tempted to multiply their 
kind, and fill the world with inhabitants ; for 'tis very remark- 
able, that wherever nature is crossed in the production of a mon- 
ster (the result of any unnatural mixture,) the breed is incapable 
of propagating its likeness, and of founding a new order of crea- 
tures ; so that, unless all animals were allured by the beauty of 
their own species, generation would be at an end, and the earth 
unpeopled. 

Here we must, however reluctantly, return to the employment 
of censure ; for this is among the worst sentences our Author 
ever wrote ; and contains a variety of blemishes. Taken as a 
whole, it is extremely deficient in unity. Instead of a complete 
proposition, it contains a sort of chain of reasoning, the links of 
which are so ill put together, that it is with difficulty we can 
trace the connection ; and unless we take the trouble of perusing 
it several times, it will leave nothing on the mind but an indis- 
tinct and obscure impression. 

Besides this general fault respecting the meaning, it contains 

T 



250 CKITICISM ON THE [LECT. XXII. 

some great inaccuracies in language. First, God's having made 
every thing which is beautiful in our species (that is, in the human 
species) pleasant, is certainly no motive for all creatures, for 
beasts, and birds, and fishes, to multiply their kind. What the 
Author meant to say, though he has expressed himself in so erro- 
neous a manner, undoubtedly was, " In all the different orders 
of creatures, he has made everything which is beautiful in their 
own species pleasant, that all creatures might be tempted to mul- 
tiply their kind." The second member of the sentence is still 
worse. For, it is very remarkable, that wherever nature is crossed 
in the production of a monster, &c. The reason which he here gives 
for the preceding assertion, intimated by the casual particle for, 
is far from being obvious. The connection of thought is not 
readily apparent, and would have required an intermediate step 
to render it distinct. But, what does he mean, by nature being 
crossed in the production of a monster ? One might understand him 
to mean, "disappointed in its intention of producing a monster;" 
as when we say, one is crossed in his pursuits, we mean that he 
is disappointed in accomplishing the end which he intended. 
Had he said crossed by the production of a monster, the sense would 
have been more intelligible. But the proper rectification of the 
expression would be to insert the adverb as, before the preposi- 
tion in, after this manner, zoherever nature is crossed, as in the 
production of a monster ; the insertion of this particle as, throws 
so much light on the construction of this member of the sen- 
tence, that I am very much inclined to believe it had stood thus, 
originally, in our Author's manuscript ; and that the present 
reading is a typographical error, which, having crept into 
the first edition of the Spectator, ran through all the subse- 
quent ones. 

In the last place, he has made every thing that is beautiful, in 
all other objects, pleasant, or rather has made so many objects 
appear beautiful, that he might render the whole creation more 
gay afyd delightful. He has given almost every thing about us the 
power of raising an agreeable idea in the imagination ; so that it 
is impossible for us to behold his works with coldness or indifference, 
and to survey so many beauties without a secret satisfaction and 
complacency. 

The idea, here, is so just, and the language so clear, flowing, 
and agreeable, that to remark any dhTuseness which may be 
attributed to these sentences, would be justly esteemed hyper- 
critical. 

Things would make but a poor appearance to the eye, if we saw 
them only in their proper figures and motions ; and what reason 
can we assign for their exciting in us many of those ideas which 
are different from anything that exists in the objects the?nselves, 
(for such are light and colours,) were it not to add supernu- 
merary ornaments to the universe, and make it more agreeable to 
the imagination? 



LECT. XXII.] SPECTATOK, XO. 413. 251 

Our Author is now entering on a theory, which he is about to 
illustrate, if not with much philosophical accuracy, yet with great 
beauty of fancy, and glow of expression. A strong instance of 
his want of accuracy appears in the manner in which he opens 
the subject. For what meaning is there in things exciting in us 
many of those ideas which are different from anything that exists in 
the objects ? No one, sure, ever imagined, that our ideas exist in 
the objects. Ideas, it is agreed on all hands, can exist nowhere 
but in the mind. What Mr. Locke's philosophy teaches, and 
what our Author should have said, is, exciting in us many ideas 
of qualities which are different from anything that exists in the 
objects. The ungraceful parenthesis which follows, for such are 
light and colours, had far better have been avoided and incorpo- 
rated with the rest of the sentence, in this manner : — " Exciting 
in us many ideas of qualities, such as light and colours, which 
are different from anything that exists in the objects." 

We are every where entertained with pleasing shows and appa- 
ritions. We -discover imaginary glories in the heavens, and in the 
earth, and see some of this visionary beauty poured out upon the 
whole creation ; but what a rough unsightly sketch of nature should 
we be entertained with, did all her colouring disappear, and the 
several distinctions of light and shade vanish ? In short, our souls 
are delightfully lost and bewildered in a pleasing delusion ; and we 
walk about like the enchanted hero of a romance, who sees beauti- 
ful castles, woods, and meadows ; and at the same time, hears the 
warbling of birds, and the purling of streams ; but, upon the 
finishing of some secret spell, the fantastic scene breaks up, and 
the disconsolate knight finds himself on a barren heath, or in a 
solitary desert. 

After having been obliged to point out several inaccuracies, I 
return with much more pleasure to the display of beauties, for 
which we have now full scope ; for these two sentences are such 
as do the highest honour to Mr. Addison's talents as a writer. 
Warmed with the idea he had laid hold of, his delicate sensibility 
to the beauty of nature is finely displayed in the illustration of 
it. The Style is flowing and full, without being too diffuse. It 
is flowery, but not gaudy ; elevated, but not ostentatious. 

Amidst this blaze of beauties, it is necessary for us to remark 
one or two inaccuracies. When it is said, towards the close of 
the first of those sentences, what a rough unsightly sketch of 
nature should we be entertained with, the preposition with, should 
have been placed at the beginning, rather than at the end of this 
member ; and the word entertained, is both improperly applied 
here, and carelessly repeated from the former part of the sen- 
tence. It was there employed according to its more common 
use, as relating to agreeable objects. We are every where enter- 
tained with pleasing shows. Here it would have been more 
proper to have changed the phrase, and said, with what a rough 
unsightly sketch of nature should we be presented. — At the close 

T2 



252 CRITICISM ON THE [LECT. XXII. 

of the second sentence, where it is said the fantastic scene breaks 
up, the expression is lively, but not altogether justifiable. An 
assembly breaks up ; a scene closes or disappears. 

Excepting these two slight inaccuracies, the Style, here, is not 
only correct, but perfectly elegant. The most striking beauty 
of the passage arises from the happy simile which the Author 
employs, and the fine illustration which it gives to the thought. 
The enchanted hero, the beautiful castles, the fantastic scene, the 
secret spell, the disconsolate knight, are terms chosen with the 
utmost felicity, and strongly recall all those romantic ideas with 
which he intended to amuse our imagination. Few authors are 
more successful in their imagery than Mr. Addison ; and few 
passages in his works, or in those of any author, are more beau- 
tiful and picturesque, than that on which we have been com- 
menting. 

It is not improbable, that something like this may be the state of the 
soul after its first separation, in respect of the images it will receive 
from matter ; though, indeed, the ideas of colours are so pleasing 
and beautiful in the imagination, that it is possible the soul will not 
be deprived of them, but, perhaps, find them excited by some other 
occasional cause, as they are, at preseid, by the different impressions 
of the subtile matter on the organ of sight. 

As all human things, after having attained the summit, begin 
to decline, we must acknowledge, that, in this sentence, there is 
a sensible falling off from the beauty of what went before. It 
is broken, and deficient in unity. Its parts are not sufficiently 
compacted. It contains, besides, some faulty expressions. When 
it is said, something like this may be the state of the soul ; to the 
pronoun this, there is no determined antecedent ; it refers to the 
general import of the preceding description, which, as I have 
several times remarked, always renders Style clumsy and 
inelegant, if not obscure — the state of the soul after its first sepa- 
ration, appears to be an incomplete phrase, and first, seems an 
useless, and even an improper word. More distinct if he had 
said — state of the soul immediately on its separation from the body. 
The adverb perhaps, is redundant, after having just before said, 
it is possible. 

1 have here supposed that my reader is acquainted with that great 
modern discovery, which is, at present, universally acknowledged by 
all the enquirers into natural philosophy ; namely, that light and 
colours, as apprehended by the imagination, are only ideas in the 
mind, and not qualities that have any existence in matter. As this 
is a truth which has been proved incontestably by many modern 
philosophers, and is, indeed, one of the finest speculations in that 
science, if the English reader would see the notion explained at large, 
he may find it in the eighth chapter of the second book of Mr. Locke's 
Essay on the Human Understanding. 

In these two concluding sentences, the Author, hastening to 
finish, appears to write rather carelessly. In the first of them, 



LECT. XXIII.] SPECTATOR, NX). 414. 253 

a manifest tautology occurs, when he speaks of what is univer- 
sally acknowledged by all enquirers, In the second, when he calls 
a truth lohich has been incontestably proved ; first, a speculation, 
and afterwards a notion, the Language surely is not very accu- 
rate. When he adds, one of the finest speculations in that science, 
it does not, at first, appear what science he means. One would 
imagine, he meant to refer to modern philosophers ; for natural 
philosophy (to which, doubtless, he refers) stands at much too 
great a distance to be the proper or obvious antecedent to the 
pronoun that. The circumstance towards the close, if the English 
reader would see the notion explained at large, he may find it, 
is properly taken notice of by the Author of the Elements of 
Criticism, as wrong arranged, and is rectified thus : the English 
reader, if he would see the notion explained at large, may find it, &c. 
In concluding the Examination of this Paper, we may observe 
that, though not a very long one, it exhibits a striking view both 
of the beauties, and the defects, of Mr. Addison's Style. It 
contains some of the best and some of the worst sentences that 
are to be found in his works. But, upon the whole, it is an 
agreeable and elegant Essay. 



LECTURE XXIIL 

CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF THE STYLE IN NO. 414 OF 
THE SPECTATOR. 

If we consider the works of Nature and Art, as they are quali- 
fied to entertain the imagination, we shall find the last very defective 
in comparison of the former ; for though they may sometimes appear 
as beautiful or strange, they can have nothing in them of that vast- 
ness and immensity which afford so great an entertainment to the 
mind of the beholder. 

I had occasion formerly to observe, that an introductory sen- 
tence should always be short and simple, and contain no more 
matter than is necessary for opening the subject. This sentence 
leads to a repetition of this observation, as it contains both an 
assertion, and the proof of that assertion ; two things, which, for 
the most part, but especially at first setting out, are with more 
advantage kept separate. It would certainly have been better, 
if this sentence had contained only the assertion, ending with the 
word former ; and if a new one had then begun, entering on the 
proofs of Nature's superiority over Art, which is the subject 
continued to the end of the paragraph. The proper division of 
the period I shall point out, after having first made a few obser- 
vations which occur in different parts of it. 

If we consider the works. — Perhaps it might have been pre- 
ferable, if our Author had begun with saying, When we consider 



254 CKITICISM ON THE [LECT. XXIII. 

the works.— Discourse ought always to begin, when it is possible 
with a clear proposition. The if, which is here employed, con- 
verts the sentence into a supposition, which is always, in some 
degree entangling, and proper to be used only when the course 
of reasoning renders it necessary. As this observation, however, 
may perhaps be considered as over-refined, and as the sense 
would have remained the same in either form of expression, I do 
not mean to charge our Author with any error on this account. 
We cannot absolve him from inaccuracy in what immediately 
follows — the works of Nature and Art. It is the scope of the 
Author, throughout this whole Paper, to compare Nature and 
Art together, and to oppose them in several views to each other. 
Certainly, therefore, in the beginning he ought to have kept 
them as distinct as possible, by interposing the preposition, and 
saying, Hie works of Nature and of Art. As the words stand at 
present, they would lead us to think that he is going to treat of 
these works, not as contrasted, but as connected ; as united in 
forming one whole. When I speak of body and soul as united 
in the human nature, I would interpose neither article nor pre- 
position between them ; " man is compounded of soul and body." 
But the case is altered, if I mean to distinguish them from each 
other; then I represent them as separate ; and say, " I am to 
treat of the interests of the soul, and of the body." 

Though they may sometimes appear as beautiful or strange. — 
I cannot help considering this as a loose member of the period. 
It does not clearly appear at first what the antecedent is to they. 
In reading onwards, we see the w T orks of Art to be meant ; but 
from the structure of the sentence, they might be understood to 
refer to the former, as well as to the last. In what follows, there 
is a greater ambiguity — may sometimes appear as beautiful or 
strange. It is very doubtful in what sense we are to understand 
as, in this passage. For, according as it is accented in reading, 
it may signify, that they appear equally beautiful or strange, to wit, 
with the works of Nature ; and then it has the force of the 
Latin tarn : or it may signify no more than that they appear in 
the light of beautiful and strange ; and then it has the force of the 
Latin tanquam, without importing any comparison. An ex- 
pression so ambiguous, is always faulty ; and it is doubly so here ; 
because, if the Author intended the former sense, and meant (as 
seems most probable) to employ as for a mark of comparison, it 
was necessary to have mentioned both the compared objects ; 
whereas only one member of the comparison is here mentioned, 
viz. the works of Art ; and if he intended the latter sense, as 
was in that case superfluous and encumbering, and he had better 
have said simply, appear beautiful or strange. The epithet 
strange, which Mr. Addison applies to the works of Art, cannot 
be praised. Strange works appears not by any means a happy 
expression to signify what he here intends, which is new or 
uncommon. 

The sentence concludes with much harmony and dignity — 



LECT. XXIII.] SPECTATOE, NO. 414. 255 

they can have nothing in them of that vastness and immensity which 
afford so great an entertainment to the mind, of the beholder. There 
is here a fulness and grandeur of expression well suited to the 
subject ; though, perhaps, entertainment is not quite the proper 
word for expressing the effect which vastness and immensity- 
have upon the mind. Reviewing the observations that have 
been made on this period, it might, I think, with advantage, be 
resolved into two sentences, somewhat after this manner: "When 
we consider the works of Nature and of Art, as they are qualified 
to entertain the imagination, we shall find the latter very defec- 
tive in comparison of the former. The works of Art may some- 
times appear no less beautiful or uncommon than those of Nature ; 
but they can have nothing of that vastness and immensity which 
so highly transport the mind of the beholder." 

The one, proceeds our Author in the next sentence, may be as 
polite and delicate as the other ; but can never show herself so 
august and magnificent in the design. 

The one and the other, in the first part of this sentence, must 
unquestionably refer to the zoorks of Nature and of Art. For of 
these he had been speaking immediately before ; and with refer- 
ence to the plural word works, had employed the plural pronoun 
they. But in the course of the sentence, he drops this construc- 
tion; and passes very incongruously to the personification of 
Art — can never show herself. To render his Style consistent, 
Art, and not the works of Art, should have been made the nomi- 
native in this sentence, Art may be as polite and delicate as Nature, 
but can never show herself. Polite is a term oftener applied to 
persons and to manners, than to things ; and is employed to sig- 
nify their being highly civilized. Polished or refined, was the 
idea which the Author had in view. Though the general turn 
of this sentence be elegant, yet, in order to render it perfect, I 
must observe that the concluding words, in the design, should 
either have been altogether omitted, or something should have 
been properly opposed to them in the preceding member of the 
period, thus : "Art may, in the execution, be as polished and 
delicate as Nature : but in the design, can never show herself 
so august and magnificent." 

There is something more bold and masterly in the rough, care- 
less strokes of Nature, than in the nice touches and embellishments 
of Art. 

This sentence is perfectly happy and elegant ; and carries, in 
all the expressions, that curiosa felicitas for which Mr. Addison 
is so often remarkable. Bold and masterly are words applied 
with the utmost propriety. The strokes of Nature are finely 
opposed to the touches of Art; and the rough strokes to the nice 
touches ; the former painting the freedom and ease of Nature, 
and the other the diminutive exactness of Art ; while both are 
introduced before us as different performers, and their respective 
merits in execution very justly contrasted with each other. 



256 CRITICISM ON THE [LECT. XXIII. 

'The beauties of the most stately garden or palace lie in a nar- 
row compass, the imagination immediately runs them over, and 
requires something else to gratify her ; but in the wide fields of 
nature, the sight wanders up and down without confinement, and 
is fed with an infinite variety of images, without any certain stint 
or number. 

This sentence is not altogether so correct and elegant as the 
former. It carries, however, in the main, the character of our 
Author's Style ; not strictly accurate, but agreeable, easy, and 
unaffected ; enlivened too with a slight personification of the 
imagination, which gives a gaiety to the period. Perhaps it had 
been better, if this personification of the imagination, with which 
the sentence is introduced, had been continued throughout, and 
not changed unnecessarily, and even improperly, into sight, in 
the second member, which is contrary both to unity and elegance. 
It might have stood thus, the imagination immediately runs them 
over, and requires something else to gratify her ; but in the wide fields 
of nature she wanders up and down without confinement. The 
epithet stately, which the Author uses in the beginning of the 
sentence, is applicable, with more propriety, to palaces than to 
gardens. The close of the sentence, without any certain stint or 
number, may be objected to as both superfluous and ungraceful. 
It might perhaps have terminated better in this manner, she is 
fed with an infinite variety of images, and wanders up and down 
without confinement. 

For this reason, we always find the poet in love with a country 
life, where Nature appears in the greatest perfection, and fur- 
nishes out all those scenes that are most apt to delight the imagi- 
nation. 

There is nothing in this sentence to attract particular atten- 
tion. One would think it was rather the country than a country 
life, on which the remark here made should rest. A country life, 
may be productive of simplicity of manners, and of other virtues ; 
but it is to the country itself, that the properties here mentioned 
belong, of displaying the beauties of Nature, and furnishing those 
scenes which delight the imagination. 

But though there are several of these wild scenes that are more 
delightful than any artificial shows, yet we find the works of Na- 
ture still more pleasant the more they resemble those of Art ; for 
in this case our pleasure rises from a double principle ; from the 
agreeableness of the objects to the eye, and from their similitude 
to other objects : we are pleased as well with comparing their 
beauties as with surveying them, and can represent them to our 
minds either as copies or as originals. Hence it is, that we take 
delight in a prospect which is well laid out, and diversified with 
fields and meadows, woods and rivers ; in those accidental land- 
scapes of trees, clouds, and cities, that are sometimes found in the 
veins of marbles, in the curious fretwork of rocks and grottoes; 
and, in a word, in anything that hath such a degree of variety 



LECT. XXIII.] SPECTATOR, NO. 414. 257 

and regularity as may seem the effect of design in what we call the 
works of chance. 

The Style, in the two sentences which compose this para- 
graph, is smooth and perspicuous. It lies open, in some places, 
to criticism ; but lest the reader should be tired of what he may 
consider as petty remarks, I shall pass over any which these 
sentences suggest ; the rather too, as the idea which they 
present to us, of Nature's" resembling Art, of Art's being con- 
sidered as an original, and Nature as a copy, seems not very 
distinct nor well brought out, nor indeed very material to our 
Author's purpose. 

If the products of Nature rise in value, according as they more 
or less resemble those of Art, we may be sure that artificial works 
receive a greater advantage from the resemblance of such as are 
natural ; because here the similitude is not only pleasant, but the 
pattern more perfect. 

It is necessary to our present design to point out two consi- 
derable inaccuracies which occur in this sentence. If the products 
(he had better have said the productions) of Nature rise in value, 
according as they more or less resemble those of Art. Does he mean 
that these productions rise in value, both according as they more 
resemble, and as they less resemble, those of Art ? His meaning 
undoubtedly is, that they rise in value only, according as they 
more resemble them : and, therefore, either these words, or less, 
must be struck out ; or the sentence must run thus, produc- 
tions of Nature rise or sink in value, according as they more or less 
resemble. The present construction of the sentence has plainly 
been owing to hasty and careless writing. 

The other inaccuracy is toward the end of the sentence, and 
serves to illustrate a rule which I formerly gave concerning the 
position of Adverbs. The author says, because here the similitude is 
not only pleasant, but the pattern more perfect. Here, by the 
position of the adverb only, we are led to imagine that he is going 
to give some other property of the similitude, that it is not only 
pleasant, as he says, but more than pleasant ; it is useful, or, on 
some account or other, valuable. Whereas, he is going to oppose 
another thing to the similitude itself, and not to this property of 
its being pleasant ; and, therefore, the right collocation, beyond 
doubt, was because here, not only the similitude is pleasant, but the 
pattern more perfect ; the contrast lying, not between pleasant 
and more perfect, but between similitude and pattern. . Much of 
the clearness and neatness of Style depends on such attentions 
as these. 

The prettiest landscape I ever saw, was one drawn on the walls 
of a dark room, which stood opposite, on one side to a navigable 
river, and, on the other, to a park. The experiment is very common 
in optics. 

In the description of the landscape which follows, Mr. Addison 
is abundantly happy ; but in this introduction to it he is obscure 






258 CRITICISM ON THE [LECT. XXIII. 

and indistinct. One who had not seen the experiment of the 
Camera Obscura could comprehend nothing of what he meant. 
And even, after we understand what he points at, we are at some 
loss, whether to understand his description as of one continued 
landscape, or of two different ones, produced by the projection of 
two Camera Obscuras on opposite walls. The scene which I 
am inclined to think Mr. Addison here refers to, is Greenwich 
Park, with the prospect of the Thames, as seen by a Camera 
Obscura, which is placed in a small room in the upper story of 
the Observatory ; where I remember to have seen many years 
ago, the whole scene here described, corresponding so much to 
Mr. Addison's account of it in this passage, that, at the time, it 
recalled it to my memory. As the Observatory stands in the 
middle of the Park, it overlooks, from one side, both the River 
and the Park : and the objects afterwards mentioned, the ships, 
the trees, and the deer, are presented in one view, without need- 
ing any assistance frcm opposite walls. Put into plainer lan- 
guage, the sentence might run thus : " The prettiest landscape I 
ever saw was one formed by a Camera Obscura, a common opti- 
cal instrument, on the wall of a dark room which overlooked a 
navigable river and a park." 

Here you might discover the waves and fluctuations of the water 
in strong and proper colours, with the picture of a ship entering 
at one end, and sailing by degrees through the whole piece. On 
another, there appeared the green shadows of trees waving to and 
fro with the wind, and herds of deer among them in miniature, 
leaping about upon the wall. 

Bating one or two small inaccuracies, this is beautiful and 
lively painting. The principal inaccuracy lies in the connexion 
of the two sentences Here, and On another. I suppose the 
author meant, on one side, and on another side. As it stands, 
another is ungrammatical, having nothing to which it refers. 
But the fluctuations of the water, the ship entering and sailing 
on by degrees, the trees waving in the wind, and the herds of 
deer among them leaping about, is all very elegant, and gives a 
beautiful conception of the scene meant to be described, 

/ must confess the novelty of such a sight may be one occasion of 
its pleasantness to the imagination ; but certainly the chief reason is 
its near resemblance to Nature ; as it does not only, like other 
pictures, give the colour and figure, but the motions of the things it 
represents. 

In this sentence there is nothing remarkable either to be 
praised or blamed. In the conclusion, instead of the things it 
represents, the regularity of correct Style requires the things 
which it represents. In the beginning as one occasion and the 
chief reason are opposed to one another, I should think it better 
to have repeated the same word ; one reason of its pleasantness to 
the imagination, but certainly the chief reason is, &c. 

We have before observed, that there is generally in Nature some- 



LECT. XXIII,] SPECTATOR, NO. 414. 259 

thing more grand and august than what we meet with in the 
curiosities of Art When, therefore, we see this imitated in any 
measure, it gives us a nobler and more exalted kind of pleasure 
than what we receive from the nicer and more accurate productions 
of Art 

In would have been better to have avoided terminating these 
two sentences in a manner so similar to each other : curiosities of 
Art ; productions of Art 

On this account, our English gardens are not so entertaining 
to the fancy as those in France and Italy, where we see a large 
extent of ground covered with an agreeable mixture of garden and 
forest, which represent every where an artificial rudeness, much more 
charming than that neatness and elegance which ice meet with in 
those of our own country. 

The expression — represent every where an artificial rudeness, is 
so inaccurate that I am inclined to think, what stood in Mr. 
Addison's manuscript must have been — present every where. For 
the mixture of garden and forest does not represent, but actually 
exhibits or presents, artificial rudeness. That mixture represents 
indeed natural rudeness, that is, is designed to imitate it ; but it 
in reality is, and presents artificial rudeness. 

It might indeed be of ill consequence to the public as well as 
unprofitable to private persons, to alienate so much ground from 
pasturage and the plough, in many parts of a country that is 
so well peopled and cultivated to a far greater advantage. But 
why may not a whole estate be thrown into a kind of garden by 
frequent plantations that may turn as much to the profit as the 
pleasure of the owner ? A marsh overgrown with willows, or a 
mountain shaded with oaks, are not only more beautiful, but more 
beneficial, than when they lie bare and unadorned. Fields of corn 
make a pleasant prospect : and if the icalks were a little taken care 
of that lie between them, and the natural embroidery of the meadows 
were helped and improved by some small additions of art, and the 
several roivs of hedges ivere set off by trees andfioivers that the soil 
was capable of receiving, a man might make a pretty landscape of 
his own possessions. 

The ideas here are just, and the Style is easy and per- 
spicuous, though" in some places bordering on the careless. In 
that passage for instance, if the walks were a little taken care of 
that lie between them ; one member is clearly out of its place, 
and the turn of the phrase, a little taken care of, is vulgar and 
colloquial. Much better if it had run thus : if a little care were 
bestowed on the walks that lie between them. 

Writers who have given us an account of China tell us, the in- 
habitants of that country laugh at the plantations of our Europeans, 
ivhich are laid out by the rule and the line ; because, they say, 
any one may place trees in equal rows and uniform figures. They 
choose rather to show a genius in works of this nature, and there- 



260 CRITICISM ON THE [LECT. XXIII. 

fore always conceal the art by which they direct themselves. They 
have a word, it seems, in their language, by which they express 
the particular beauty of a plantation, that thus strikes the imagi- 
nation at first sight, without discovering what it is that has so 
agreeable an effect. 

These sentences furnish occasion for no remark, except that 
in the last of them, particular is improperly used instead of 
pecidiar ; the peculiar beauty of a plantation that thus strikes 
the imagination, was the phrase to have conveyed the idea which 
the author meant ; namely, the beauty which distinguishes it 
from plantations of another kind. 

Our British gardeners on the contrary, instead of humouring 
nature, love to deviate from it as much as possible. Our trees 
rise in cones, globes, and pyramids. We see the marks of the 
scissars on every plant and bush. 

These sentences are lively and elegant. They make an agree- 
able diversity from the strain of those which went before ; and 
are marked with the hand of Mr. Addison. I have to remark 
only, that in the phrase, instead of humouring nature, love to 
deviate from it — humouring and deviating, are terms not properly 
opposed to each other ; a sort of personification of Nature is 
begun in the first of them which is not supported in the 
second. To humouring was to have been opposed thwarting — or 
if deviating was kept, following or going along with nature, was to 
have been used. 

/ do not know whether I am singular in my opinion, but, for my 
own part, I would rather look upon a tree, in all its luxuriancy 
and diffusion of boughs and branches, than when it is thus cut and 
trimmed into a mathematical figure ; and cannot but fancy that 
an orchard, in flower, looks infinitely more delightful, than all the 
little labyrinths of the most finished parterre. 

This sentence is extremely harmonious, and every way 
beautiful. It carries all the characteristics of our author's 
natural, graceful, and flowing language. A tree, in all its luxu- 
riancy and diffusion of boughs and branches, is a remarkably 
happy expression. The author seems to become luxuriant in 
describing an object which is so, and thereby renders the sound 
a perfect echo to the sense. 

But as our great modellers of gardens have their magazines of 
plants to dispose of, it is very natural in them, to tear up all the 
beautiful plantations of fruit trees, and contrive a plan that may 
most turn to their profit, in taking off their evergreens, and the like 
moveable plants, with which their shops are plentifully stocked. 

An author should always study to conclude, when it is in his 

X power, with grace and dignity. It is somewhat unfortunate, 

that this paper did not end, as it might very well have done, 

with the former beautiful period. The impression left on the 

mind by the beauties of nature with which he had been enter- 



LECT. XXIV.] STYLE OF DEAN SWIFT. 261 

taining us, would then have been more agreeable. But in this 
sentence there is a great falling off; and we return with pain 
from those pleasing objects, to the insignificant contents of a 
nurseryman's shop. 



LECTUKE XXIY. 

CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF THE STYLE IN A PASSAGE OF 
DEAN SWIFT'S WRITINGS. 

My design, in the four preceding lectures, was not merely 
to appreciate the merit of Mr. Addison's Style, by pointing out 
the faults and the beauties that are mingled in the writings of 
that great author. They were not composed with any view to 
gain the reputation of a critic ; but intended for the assistance 
of such as are desirous of studying the most proper and elegant 
construction of sentences in the English language. To such, it 
is hoped, they may be of advantage ; as the proper application of 
rules respecting Style will always be best learned by means of 
the illustration which examples afford. I conceived that ex- 
amples, taken from the writings of an author so justly esteemed, 
would, on that account, not only be more attended to, but would 
also produce this good effect, of familiarizing those who study 
composition with the style of a writer, from whom they may, 
upon the whole, derive great benefit. With the same view, I 
shall, in this lecture, give one critical exercise more of the same 
kind, upon the style of an author of a different character, Dean 
Swift ; repeating the intimation I gave formerly, that such as 
stand in need of no assistance of this kind, and who, therefore, 
will naturally consider such minute discussions concerning the 
propriety of words, and structure of sentences, as beneath their 
attention, had best pass over what will seem to them a tedious 
part of the work. 

I formerly gave the general character of Dean Swift's Style. 
He is esteemed one of our most correct writers. His style is of 
the plain and simple kind; free from all affectation and all super- 
fluity ; perspicuous, manly, and pure. These are its advantages. 
But we are not to look for much ornament and grace in it.* On 
the contrary, Dean Swift seems to have slighted and despised 

* I am glad to find, that, in my judgment concerning this author's composition, I 
have coincided with the opinion of a very able critic : " This easy and safe conveyance 
of meaning, it was Swift's desire to attain, and for having attained, he certainly deserves 
praise, though, perhaps, not the highest praise. For purposes merely didactic, when 
something is to he told that was not known before, it is in the highest degree proper; but 
against that inattention by which known truths are suffered to be neglected, it 
makes no provision ; it instructs, but does not persuade." Johnson's Lives of the 
Poets, in Swift. 



262 STYLE IN A PASSAGE OF [LECT. XXIV. 

the ornaments of language, rather than to have studied them. 
His arrangement is often loose and negligent. In elegant, musi- 
cal, and figurative language, he is much inferior to Mr. Addison. 
His manner of writing carries in it the character of one who 
rests altogether upon his sense, and aims at no more than giving 
his meaning in a clear and concise manner. 

That part of his writings, which I shall now examine, is the 
beginning of his Treatise, entitled, " A Proposal for correcting, 
improving, and ascertaining the English Tongue," in a Letter 
addressed to the Earl of Oxford, then Lord High Treasurer. 
I was led, by the nature of the subject, to choose this treatise ; 
but, in justice to the Dean, I must observe that, after having 
examined it, I do not esteem it one of his most correct produc- 
tions ; but am apt to think it has been more hastily composed 
than some other of them. It bears the title and form of a Letter : 
but it is, however, in truth, a Treatise designed for the Public ; 
and, therefore, in examining it, we cannot proceed upon the 
indulgence due to an epistolary correspondence. When a man 
addresses himself to a friend only, it is sufficient if he makes 
himself fully understood by him ; but when an author writes for 
the public, whether he employs the form of an epistle or not, we 
are always entitled to expect, that he shall express himself with 
accuracy and care. Our author begins thus : 

What I had the honour of mentioning to your Lordship, some 
time ago, in conversation, was not a new thought, just then started by 
accident or occasion, but the result of long reflection ; and I have 
been confirmed in my sentiments by the opinion of some very judicious 
persons with whom I consulted. 

The disposition of circumstances in a sentence, such as serve 
to limit or to qualify some assertion, or to denote time and place, 
I formerly showed to be a matter of nicety ; and I observed, 
that it ought to be always held a rule, not to crowd such circum- 
stances together, but rather to intermix them with more capital 
words, in such different parts of the sentence as can admit them 
naturally. Here are two circumstances of this kind placed to- 
gether, which had better have been separated. Some time ago, 
in conversation — better thus : — What I had the honour some time 
ago, of mentioning to your Lordship in conversation — was not a new 
thought, proceeds our author, started by accident or occasion : the 
different meaning of these two words may not at first occur. 
They have, however, a distinct meaning, and are properly used : 
for it is one very laudable property of our Author's Style, that 
I it is seldom encumbered with superfluous, synonymous words. 
Started by accident, is fortuitously, or at random ; started by 
occasion, is by some incident which at that time gave birth to it. 
His meaning is, that it was not a new thought which either 
casually sprung up in his mind, or was suggested to him, for the 
first time, by the train of the discourse : but, as he adds, was the 
result of long reflection. He proceeds : 



LECT. XXIV.] DEAN SWIFTS WKITINGS. 263 

They all agreed, that nothing would be of greater use towards 
the improvement of knowledge and politeness, than some effectual 
method for correcting, enlarging, and ascertaining our Language ; 
and they think it a work very possible to be compassed under the 
protection of a prince, the countenance and encouragement of a 
ministry, and the care of proper persons chosen for such an un- 
dertaking. 

This is an excellent sentence ; clear and elegant, The words 
are all simple, well chosen and expressive ; and arranged in the 
most proper order. It is a harmonious period too, which is a 
beauty not frequent in our author. The last part of it consists 
of three members, which gradually rise and swell above one 
another, without any affected or unsuitable pomp ; — under the 
protection of a prince, the countenance and encouragement of a minis- 
try, and the care of proper persons chosen for such an undertaking. 
We may remark, in the beginning of the sentence, the proper use 
of the preposition towards — greater use towards the improvement of 
knowledge and politeness — importing the pointing or tendency of 
anything to a certain end ; which could not have been so well 
expressed by the preposition for, commonly employed in place 
of towards, by authors who are less attentive than Dean Swift 
was to the force of words. 

One fault might, perhaps, be found both with this and the 
former sentence, considered as introductory ones. We expect, 
that an introduction is to unfold, clearly and directly, the sub- 
ject that is to be treated of. In the first sentence our author 
had told ns of- a thought he mentioned to his Lordship, in con- 
versation, which had been the result of long reflection, and con- 
cerning which he had consulted judicious persons. But what 
that thought was, we are never told directly. We gather it 
indeed from the second sentence, wherein he informs us in what 
these judicious persons agreed; namely, that some method for 
improving the Language was both useful and practicable. But 
this indirect method of opening the subject, would have been 
very faulty in a regular treatise ; though the ease of the episto- 
lary form, which our author here assumes in addressing his patron? 
may excuse it in the present case. 

I was glad to find your Lordship's answer in so different a style 
from what hath commonly been made use of, on the like occasions, 
for some years past ; " That all such thoughts must be deferred 
to a time of peace ; " a topic which some have carried so far, that 
they would not have us, by any means, think of preserving our 
civil and religious constitution, because we are engaged in a war 
abroad. 

This sentence also is clear and elegant ; only there is one 
inaccuracy, when he speaks of his Lordship's answer being in so 
different a style from what had formerly been used. His answer 
to what ? or to whom ? For, from anything going before, it does 
not appear that any application or address had been made to his 



264 STYLE IN A PASSAGE OF [lECT. XXIV. 

Lordship by those persons, whose opinion was mentioned in the 
preceding sentence ; and to whom the answer, here spoken of, 
naturally refers. There is a little indistinctness, as I before 
observed, in our author's manner of introducing his subject here, 
we may observe too, that the phrase, glad to find your answer in 
so different a style, though abundantly suited to the language of 
conversation, or of a familiar letter, yet, in regular composition, 
requires an additional word, glad to find your answer run in so 
different a style. 

It will be among the distinguishing marks of your ministry, my 
Lord, that you have a genius above all such regards, and that no 
reasonable proposal, for the honour, the advantage, or ornament of 
your country, however foreign to your immediate office, was ever 
neglected by you. 

The phrase, a genius above all such regards, both seems some- 
what harsh, and does not clearly express what the author means, 
namely, the confined views of those who neglected every thing 
that belonged to the arts of peace in the time of war. Except 
this expression, there is nothing that can be subject to the least 
reprehension, in this sentence, nor in all that follows, to the end 
of the paragraph. 

I confess the merit of this candour and condescension is very much 
lessened, because your Lordship hardly leaves us room to offer our 
good wishes ; removing all our difficulties, and supplying our wants, 
faster than the most visionary projector can adjust his schemes. 
And therefore, my Lord, the design of this paper is not so much 
to offer you ways and means, as to complain of a grievance, the 
redressing of which is to be your own work, as much as that of 
paying the nations debts, or opening a trade into the South Sea ; 
and though not of such immediate benefit as either of these, or any 
other of your glorious actions, yet, perhaps, in future ages not less to 
your honour. 

The compliments which the Dean here pays to his patron are 
very high and strained ; and show, that, with all his surliness, 
he was as capable, on some occasions, of making his court to a 
great man by flattery, as other writers. However, with respect 
to the Style, which is the sole object of our present consideration, 
every thing here, as far as appears to me, is faultless. In these 
sentences, and indeed throughout this paragraph in general, 
which we have now ended, our author's Style appears to great 
advantage. We see that ease and simplicity, that correctness 
and distinctness, which particularly characterise it. It is very 
remarkable how few Latinised words Dean Swift employs. No 
writer, in our Language, is so purely English as he is, or borrows 
so little assistance from words of foreign derivation. From none 
can we take a better model of the choice and proper significancy 
of words. It is remarkable, in the sentences we have now 
before us, how plain all the expressions are, and yet, at the 
same time, how significant : and in the midst of that high strain 



LECT. XXIV.] DEAN SWIFT'S WRITINGS. 265 

of compliment into which he rises, how little there is of pomp, 
or glare of expression. How very few writers can preserve this 
manly temperance of Style ; or would think a compliment of 
this nature supported with sufficient dignity, unless they had 
embellished it with some of those high-sounding words, whose 
chief effect is no other than to give their Language a stiff and 
forced appearance. 

My Lord, I do here, in the name of all the learned arid polite 
persons of the nation, complain to your Lordship as first Minister, 
that our Language is extremely imperfect ; that its daily improve- 
ments are by no means in proportion to its daily corruptions ; that 
the pretenders s to polish and refine it, have chiefly midtiplied abuses 
and absurdities; and that, in many instances, it offends against 
every part of grammar. 

The turn of this sentence is extremely elegant. He had 
spoken before of a grievance for which he sought redress, and 
he carries on the allusion, by entering here directly on his sub- 
ject, in the Style of a public representation presented to the 
Minister of State. One imperfection, however, there is in this 
sentence, which, luckily for our purpose, serves to illustrate a 
rule before given concerning the position of adverbs, so as to 
avoid ambiguity. It is in the middle of the sentence ; — that the 
pretenders to polish and refine it, have chiefly multiplied abuses and 
absurdities. Now, concerning the import of this adverb, chiefly, 
I ask, whether it signifies that these pretenders to polish the 
Language have been the chief persons who have multiplied its 
abuses, in distinction from others ; or that the chief thing which 
these pretenders have done, is to multiply the abuses of our 
Language, in opposition to their doing any thing to refine it ? 
These two meanings are really different ; and yet, by the position 
which the word chiefly has in the sentence, we are left at a loss 
in which to understand it. The construction would lead us 
rather to the latter sense ; that the chief thing which these pre- 
tenders have done, is to multiply the abuses of our Language. 
But it is more than probable, that the former sense was what the 
Dean intended, as it carries more of his usual satirical edge : 
" that the pretended refiners of our Language were, in fact, its 
chief corrupters ; " on which supposition, his words ought to have 
run thus : that the pretenders to polish and refine it, have been the 
chief persons to multiply its abuses and absurdities ; which would 
have rendered the sense perfectly clear. 

Perhaps, too, there might be ground for observing farther 
upon this sentence, that as Language is the object with which 
it sets out : that our Language is extremely imperfect ; and as 
there follows an enumeration concerning Language, in three 
partibulars, it had been better if Language had been kept the 
ruling word, or the nominative to every verb, without chang- 
ing the construction, by making pretenders the ruling word, 
as is done in the second member of the enumeration, and then, 

u 



266 STYLE IN A PASSAGE OF [LECT. XXIV. 

in the third, returning again to the former word, Language ; 
— That the pretenders to polish — and that, in many instances, it 
offends. I am persuaded, that the structure of the sentence 
would have been more neat and happy, and its unity more 
complete, if the members of it had been arranged thus : " That 
our Language is extremely imperfect; that its daily improve- 
ments are by no means in proportion to its daily corruptions ; 
that, in many instances, it offends against every part of gram- 
mar ; and that the pretenders to polish and refine it, have been 
the chief persons to multiply its abuses and absurdities." This 
degree of attention seemed proper to be bestowed on such a 
sentence as this, in order to show how it might have been con- 
ducted after the most perfect manner. Our Author, after 
having said, 

Lest your Lordship should think my censure too severe, I shall 
take leave to be more particular; proceeds in the following 
paragraph. 

I believe your Lordship will agree with me in the reason why our 
language is less refined than those of Italy, Spain, or France. 

I am sorry to say, that now we shall have less to commend 
in our Author. For the whole of this paragraph on which 
we are entering, is, in truth, perplexed and inaccurate. Even, 
in this short sentence, we may discern an inaccuracy ; why 
our Language is less refined than those of Italy, Spain, or 
France ; putting the pronoun those in the plural, when the an- 
tecedent substantive to which it refers, is in the singular, our 
Language. Instances of this kind may sometimes be found 
in English authors ; but they sound harsh to the ear, and are 
certainly contrary to the purity of grammar. By a very little 
attention, this inaccuracy might have been remedied, and the 
sentence have been made to run much better in this way: 
"why our Language is less refined than the Italian, Spanish, 
or French." 

It is plain, that the Latin tongue, in its purity, was never in this 
island ; towards the conquest of which, few or no attempts were 
made till the time of Claudius; neither was that language 
ever so vulgar in Britain, as it is known to have been in Gaul 
and Spain. 

To say, that the Latin Tongue in its purity, was never in 
this island, is very careless Style ; it ought to have been, was 
never spoken in this island. In the progress of the sentence, 
he means to give a reason why the Latin was never spoken 
in its purity amongst us, because our island was not conquered 
by the Romans till after the purity of their Tongue began to 
decline. But this reason ought to have been brought out 
more clearly. This might easily have been done, and the 
relation of the several parts of the sentence to each other much 
better pointed out by means of a small variation ; thus : " It 
is plain, that the Latin Tongue, in its purity, was never spoken 



LECT. XXIV.] DEAN SWIFT'S WRITINGS. 267 

in this island, as few or no attempts towards the conquest of it 
were made till the time of Claudius." He adds, Neither was 
that Language ever so vulgar in Britain. Vulgar was one 
of the worst words he could have chosen for expressing what he 
means here ; namely, that the Latin Tongue was at no time so 
general, or so much in common use, in Britain, as it is known to 
have been in Gaul and Spain. Vulgar, when applied to Lan- 
guage, commonly signifies impure or debased Language, such as 
is spoken by the low people, which is quite opposite to the 
Author's sense here ; for, instead of meaning to say, that the 
Latin spoken in Britain was not so debased, as what was spoken 
in Gaul and Spain; he means just the contrary, and had 
been telling us, that we never were acquainted with the Latin 
at all, till its purity began to be corrupted. 

Further, we find that the Roman legions here were at length 
all recalled to help their country against the Goths, and other bar- 
barous invaders. 

The chief scope of this sentence is, to give a reason why 
the Latin Tongue did not strike any deep root in this island, 
on account of the short continuance of the Romans in it. He 
goes on : 

Meantime the Britons, left to shift for themselves, and daily 
harassed by cruel inroads from the Bids, were forced to call 
in the Saxons for their defence ; who, consequently, reduced the 
greatest part of the island to their own power, drove the Britons 
into the most remote and mountainous parts, and the rest of 
the country, in customs, religion, and language, became wholly Saxon. 

This is a very exceptionable sentence. First, the phrase, 
left to shift for themselves, is rather a low phrase, and too much 
in the familiar Style to be proper in a grave treatise. Next, 
as the sentence advances — forced to call in the Saxons for their 
defence, who, consequently, reduced the greatest part of the island 
to their own power. What is the meaning of consequently 
here ? If it means " afterwards," or " in progress of time," 
this, certainly, is not a sense in which consequently is often 
taken; and therefore the expression is chargeable with obscu- 
rity. The adverb, consequently, in its most common accepta- 
tion, denotes one thing following from another, as an effect 
from a cause. If he uses it in this sense, and means that the 
Britons being subdued by the Saxons, was a necessary conse- 
quence of their having called in these Saxons to their assist- 
ance, this consequence is drawn too abruptly, and needed 
more explanation. For though it has often happened, that 
nations have been subdued by their own auxiliaries, yet this 
is not a consequence of such a nature that it can be assumed, 
as seems here to be done, for a first and self-evident principle. 
But further, what shall we say to this phrase, reduced the 
greatest part of the island to their own power ? we say, reduce 
to rule, reduce to practice — we can say, that one nation re- 

u2 



268 STYLE IN A PASSAGE OF [LECT. XXIV. 

duces another to subjection. But when dominion or power is 
used, we always, as far as I know, say, reduce under their 
power. Reduce to their poiver, is so harsh and uncommon an 
expression, that, though Dean Swift's authority in language 
be very great, yet, in the use of this phrase, I am of opinion 
that it would not be safe to follow his example. 
' Besides these particular inaccuracies, this sentence is charge- 
able with want of unity in the composition of the whole. The 
persons and the scene. are too often changed upon us. First, 
the Britons are mentioned, who are harassed by inroads from 
the Picts ; next, the Saxons appear, who subdue the greatest 
part of the island, and drive the Britons into the mountains ; 
and, lastly, the rest of the country is introduced, and a des- 
cription given of the change made upon it. All this forms a 
group of various objects, presented in such quick succession, 
that the mind .finds it difficult to comprehend them under one 
view. Accordingly it is quoted in the Elements of Criticism, 
as an instance of a sentence rendered faulty by the breach 
of unity. 

This I take to he the reason why there die more Latin words 
remaining in the British than the old Saxon; which, excepting 
some few variations in the orthography, is the same in most 
original words with oar present English, as well as with the 
German and other northern dialects. 

This sentence is faulty, somewhat in the same manner with 
the last. It is loose in the connexion of its parts ; and, besides 
this, it is also too loosely connected with the preceding sentence. 
What he had there said, concerning the Saxons expelling 
the Britons, and changing the customs, the religion, and the 
language of the country, is a clear and good reason for our pre- 
sent language being Saxon rather than British. This is the in- 
ference which we would naturally expect him to draw from the 
premises just before laid down. But when he tells us, that this 
is the reason why there are more Latin words remaining in the 
British tongue than in the old Saxon, we are presently at a stand. 
No reason for this inference appears. If it can be gathered 
at all from the foregoing deduction, it is gathered only imper- 
fectly. For as he had told us that the Britons had some con- 
nexion with the Bomans, he should have also told us, in order to 
make out his inference, that the Saxons never had any. The 
truth is, the whole of this paragraph concerning the influence 
of the Latin Tongue upon ours, is careless, perplexed, and 
obscure. His argument required to have been more fully 
unfolded, in order to make it be distinctly apprehended, and 
to give it its due force. In the next paragraph he proceeds 
to discourse concerning the influence of the French tongue upon 
our language. The Style becomes more clear, though not 
remarkable for great beauty or elegance. 

Edward the Confessor, having lived long in France, appears to 



LECT. XXIV.] DEAN SWIFT'S WKITIXGS. 269 

be the first who introduced any mixture of the French tongue with 
the Saxon ; the court affecting what the prince was fond of and 
others taking it up for a fashion, as it is now with us. William 
the Conqueror proceeded much farther, bringing over with him 
vast numbers of that nation, scattering them in every monastery, 
giving them great quantities of land, directing all pleadings to be 
in that language, and endeavouring to make it universal in the 
kingdom. 

On these two sentences, I have nothing of moment to observe. 
The sense is brought out clearly, and in simple, unaffected 
language. 

This, at least, is the opinion generally received ; but your Lord- 
ship hath fidly convinced me, that the Trench tongue made yet a 
greater progress here under Harry the Second, ivho had large ter- 
ritories on that continent both from his father and his wife ; made 
frequent journeys and expeditions thither ; and was always attended 
ivith a number of his countrymen, retainers at court. 

In the beginning of this sentence, our Author states an 
opposition between an opinion generally received, and that 
of his Lordship ; and in compliment to his patron, he tells us, 
that his Lordship had convinced him of somewhat that dif- 
fered from the general opinion. Thus one must naturally un- 
derstand his words: This, at least, is the opinion generally 
received; but your Lordship hath fully convinced me. Now 
here there must be an inaccuracy of expression. For, on ex- 
amining what went before, there appears no sort of opposition 
betwixt the generally received opinion, and that of the Author's 
patron. The general opinion was, that William the Conqueror 
had proceeded much farther than Edward the Confessor, in pro- 
pagating the French language, and had endeavoured to make 
it universal. Lord Oxford's opinion was, that the French 
tongue had gone on to make a yet greater progress under Harry 
the Second, than it had done under his predecessor William : 
which two opinions are as entirely consistent with each other 
as any can be ; and therefore the opposition here affected to be 
stated between them, by the adversative particle but, was im- 
proper and groundless. 

Tor some centuries after, there was a constant intercourse between 
France and England,, by the dominions we possessed there, and the 
conquests ice made ; so that our language, between two and three 
hundred years ago, seems to have had a greater mixture with French 
than at present ; many words having been afterwards rejected, and 
some since the days of Spenser : although we have still retained not 
a few, which have been long antiquated in France. 

This is a sentence too long and intricate, and liable to the 
same objection that was made to a former one, of the want of 
unity. It consists of four members, each divided from the 
subsequent by a semicolon. In going along, we naturally ex-, 
pect the sentence is to end at the second of these, or, at far- 



270 STYLE IN A PASSAGE OF [LECT. XXIV. 

thest, at . the third ; when, to our surprise, a new member of 
the period makes its appearance, and fatigues our attention 
in joining all the parts together. Such a structure of a sen- 
tence is always the mark of careless writing. In the first 
member of the sentence, a constant intercourse between France 
and England, by the dominions we possessed there, and the con- 
quests we made, the construction is not sufficiently filled up. 
In place of intercourse by the dominions we possessed, it should 
have been — by reason of the dominions we possessed, — or — 
occasioned by the dominions we possessed — and in place of, — 
the dominions we possessed there, and the conquests we made, the 
regular Style is, the dominions which we possessed there, and 
the conquests ivhich we made. The relative pronoun which is 
indeed in phrases of this kind sometimes omitted : But when 
it is omitted, the Style becomes elliptic ; and though in con- 
versation, or in the very light and easy kinds of writing, such 
elliptic Style may not be improper, yet in grave and regular 
writing, it is better to fill up the construction and insert the 
relative pronoun. After having said, 1 could produce several in- 
stances of both kinds, if it were of any use or entertainment, our 
author begins the next paragraph thus : 

To examine into the several circumstances by ivhich the language 
of a country may be altered, ivould force me to enter into a wide 
field. 

There is nothing remarkable in this sentence, unless that 
here occurs the first instance of a metaphor since the begin- 
ning of this treatise ; entering into a wide field, being put for 
beginning an extensive subject. Few writers deal less in 
figurative language than Swift. I before observed, that he 
appears to despise ornaments of this kind ; and though this ren- 
ders his Style somewhat dry on serious subjects, yet his plain- 
ness and simplicity, I must not forbear to remind my readers, 
is far preferable to an ostentatious and affected parade of or- 
nament. 

I shall only observe, that the Latin, the French, and the English, 
seem to have undergone the same fortune. The first, from the days 
of Romulus to those of Julius Ccesar, suffered perpetual changes ; 
and by what we meet in those authors who occasionally speak on that 
subject, as well as from certain fragments of old laws, it is manifest, 
that the Latin, three hundred years before Tully, was as unintelli- 
gible in his time, as the French and English of the same period are 
now ; and these two have changed as much since William the Con- 
queror, (ivhich is but little less than seven hundred years), as the 
Latin appears to have done in the like term. 

The Dean plainly appears to be writing negligently here. 
This sentence is one of that involved and intricate kind, of 
which some instances have occurred before; but none worse 
than this. It requires a very distinct head to comprehend 
the whole meaning of the period at first reading. In one 



LECT. XXIV.] DEAN SWIFT'S WRITINGS. 271 

part of it we find extreme carelessness of expression. He says, 
it is manifest that the Latin, three hundred years before Tully, was 
as unintelligible in his time, as the English and French of the same 
period are now. By the English and French of the same period, 
must naturally be understood the English and French that were 
spoken three hundred years before Tully. This is the only gram- 
matical meaning his words will bear ; and y assuredly what he 
means, and what it would have been easy for him to have 
expressed with more precision is, the English and French that 
were spoken three hundred years ago ; or at a period equally 
distant from our age, as the old Latin, which he had men- 
tioned, was from the age of Tully. But when an author 
writes hastily, and does not review with proper care what he 
has written, many such inaccuracies will be apt to creep into 
his Style. 

Whether our Language or the French will decline as fast as 
the Roman did, is a question that would perhaps admit more 
debate than it is worth. There were many reasons for the cor- 
ruptions of the last; as the change of their government to a 
tyrrany, which ruined the study of eloquence, there being no far- 
ther use or encouragement for popular orators ; their giving not 
only the freedom of the city, but capacity for employments, to 
several towns in Gaul, Spain, and Germany, and other distant 
parts, as far as Asia, which brought a great number of foreign 
pretenders to Home; the slavish disposition of the senate and 
people, by which the wit and eloquence of the age were wholly 
turned into panegyric, the most barren of all subjects ; the great 
corruption of manners, and introduction of foreign luxury, with 
foreign terms to express it, with several others that might be 
assigned; not to mention the invasions from the Goths and 
Vandals, which are too obvious to insist on. 

In the enumeration here made of the causes contributing 
towards the corruption of the Boman language, there are many 
inaccuracies — The change of their government to a tyranny — of 
whose government? He had indeed been speaking of the 
Eoman language, and therefore we guess at his meaning : but 
the Style is ungrammatical ; for he had not mentioned the 
Romans themselves ; and, therefore, when he says their govern- 
ment, there is no antecedent in the sentence to which the pro- 
noun, their, can refer with any propriety. Giving the capacity 
for employment to several towns in Gaul, is a questionable expres- 
sion. For though towns are sometimes put for the people who 
inhabit them, yet to give a town the capacity for employments, 
sounds harsh and uncouth. The wit and eloquence of the age 
wholly turned into panegyric, is a phrase which does not well 
express the meaning. Neither wit nor eloquence can be turned 
into panegyric ; but they may be turned towards panegyric, or 
employed in panegyric, which was the sense the author had in 
view. 



272 STYLE OF DEAN SWIFT. [LECT. XXIV. 

The conclusion of the enumeration is visibly incorrect — The 
great corruption of manners and introduction of foreign luxury, with 
foreign terms to ex-press it, with several others that might be 
assigned — He means, with several other reasons. The word 
reasons, had indeed been mentioned before ; but as it stands 
at the distance of thirteen lines backward, the repetition of 
it here became indispensable, in order to avoid ambiguity. Not 
to mention, he adds, the invasions from the Goths and Vandals, 
which are too obvious to insist on. One would imagine him to 
mean, that the invasions from the Goths and Vandals are 
historical facts too well known and obvious to be insisted on. 
But he means quite a different tiling, though he has not taken 
the proper method of expressing it, through his haste, probably, 
to finish the paragraph ; namely, that these invasions from the 
Goths and Vandals were causes of the corruption of the Roman 
language too obvious to be insisted on. 

I shall not pursue this criticism any farther. I have been 
obliged to point out many inaccuracies in the passage which 
we have considered. But in order that my observations may 
not be construed as meant to depreciate the Style or the writ- 
ings of Dean Swift below their just value, there are two 
remarks which I judge it necessary to make before concluding 
this Lecture. One is, that it were unfair to estimate an author's 
Style on the whole, by some passage in his writings, which 
chances to be composed in a careless manner. This is the 
case with respect to this treatise, which has much the appear- 
ance of a hasty production ; though, as I before observed, 
it was by no means on that account that I pitched upon it 
for the subject of this exercise. But after having examined 
it, I am sensible that, in many other of his writings, the Dean 
is more accurate. 

My other observation, which is equally applicable to Dean 
Swift and Mr. Addison, is, that there may be writers much 
freer from such inaccuracies, as I have had occasion to point out 
in these two, whose Style, however, upon the whole, may 
not have half their merit. Refinement in Language has, of 
late years, begun to be much attended to. In several modern 
productions of very small value, I should find it difficult to 
point out many errors in Language. The words might pro- 
bably be all proper words correctly and clearly arranged, and 
the turn of the sentence sonorous and musical ; whilst yet the 
Style, upon the whole, might deserve no praise. The fault often 
lies in what may be called the general cast or complexion 
of the Style ; which a person of a good taste discerns to be 
vicious ; to be feeble, for instance, and diffuse ; flimsy or af- 
fected ; petulant or ostentatious ; though the faults cannot 
be so easily pointed out and particularised, as when they 
lie in some erroneous or negligent construction of a sentence. 
Whereas, such writers as Addison and Swift carry always 



LECT. XXV.] ELOQUENCE. 273 

those general characters of good Style, which, in the midst of 
their occasional negligences, every person of good taste must 
discern and approve. We see their faults overbalanced by 
higher beauties. We see a writer of sense and reflection ex- 
pressing his sentiments without affectation ; attentive to 
thoughts as well as to words ; and, in the main current of his 
Language, elegant and beautiful; and, therefore, the only 
proper use to be made of the blemishes which occur in the 
writings of such authors, is to point out to those who apply 
themselves to the study of composition, some of the rules which 
they ought to observe for avoiding such errors ; and to render 
them sensible of the necessity of strict attention to Language 
and to Style. Let them imitate the ease and simplicity of those 
great authors ; let them study to be always natural, and, as far 
as they can, always correct in their expressions ; let them en- 
deavour to be, at some times, lively and striking ; but carefully 
avoid being at any time, ostentatious and affected. 



LECTURE XXV. 

ELOQUENCE, OR PUBLIC SPEAKING.— HISTORY OE ELOQUENCE, 
— GRECIAN ELOQUENCE. DEMOSTHENES. 

Having finished that part of the Course which relates to 
Language and Style, we are now to ascend a step higher, and 
to examine the subjects upon which Style is employed. I begin 
with what is properly called Eloquence, or Public Speaking. 
In treating of this, I am to consider the different kinds and 
subjects of Public Speaking ; the manner suited to each ; 
the proper distribution and management of all the parts of a 
discourse ; and the proper pronunciation or delivery of it. But 
before I enter on any of these heads, it may be proper to take a 
view of the nature of Eloquence in general, and of the state in 
which it has subsisted in different ages and countries. This will 
lead into some detail ; but I hope an useful one ; as in every art 
it is of great consequence to have a just idea of the perfection of 
that art, of the end at which it aims, and of the progress which 
it has made among mankind. 

Of Eloquence, in particular, it is the more necessary to ascer- 
tain the proper notion, because there is not any thing concerning 
which false notions have been more prevalent. Hence, it has 
been so often, and is still at this day in disrepute with many. 
When you speak to a plain man of Eloquence, or in praise of 
it, he is apt to hear you with very little attention. He conceives 
Eloquence to signify a certain trick of Speech ; the art of 
varnishing weak arguments plausibly ; or of speaking so as to 



274 ELOQUENCE, [LECT. XXV. 

please and tickle the ear. "Give me good sense," says he, "and 
keep your Eloquence for boys." He is in the right, if Eloquence 
were what he conceives it to be. It would be then a very con- 
temptible art indeed, below the study of any wise or good man. 
But nothing can be more remote from truth. To be truly 
eloquent is to speak to the purpose. For the best definition 
which, I think, can be given of Eloquence, is, the Art of Speak- 
ing in such a manner as to attain the end for which we speak. 
Whenever a man speaks or writes, he is supposed, as a rational 
being, to have some end in view ; either to inform, or to amuse, 
or to persuade, or, in some way or other, to act upon his fellow 
creatures. He who speaks, or writes, in such a manner as to 
adapt all his words most effectually to that end, is the most 
eloquent man. Whatever then the subject be, there is room 
for Eloquence ; in history, or even in philosophy, as well as in 
orations. The definition which I have given of Eloquence, 
comprehends all the different kinds of it ; whether calculated to 
instruct, to persuade, or to please. But as the most important 
subject of discourse is Action, or Conduct, the power of Elo- 
quence chiefly appears when it is employed to influence Conduct, 
and persuade to Action. As it is principally with reference to 
this end, that it becomes the object of Art, Eloquence may, 
under this view of it, be defined, The Art of Persuasion. 

This being once established, certain consequences immediately 
follow, which point out the fundamental maxims of the Art. It 
follows clearly, that, in order to persuade, the most essential 
requisites are, solid argument, clear method, a character of 
probity appearing in the Speaker, joined with such graces of 
style and utterance as shall draw our attention to what he says. 
Good sense is the foundation of all. No man can be truly 
eloquent without it ; for fools can persuade none but fools. In 
order to persuade a man of sense, you must first convince him ; 
which is only to be done by satisfying his understanding of the 
reasonableness of what you propose to him. 

This leads me to observe, that convincing and persuading, 
though they are sometimes confounded, import, notwithstanding, 
different things, which it is necessary for us, at present, to dis- 
tinguish from each other. Conviction affects the understanding 
only ; persuasion, the will and the practice. It is the business 
of the philosopher to convince me of truth ; it is the business of 
the orator to persuade me to act agreeably to it, by engaging 
my affections on its side. Conviction and persuasion do not 
always go together. They ought, indeed, to go together; and 
would do so, if our inclination regularly followed the dictates of 
our understanding. But as our nature is constituted, I may be 
convinced that virtue, justice, or public spirit, are laudable, 
while, at the same time, I am not persuaded to act according to 
them. The inclination may revolt, though the understanding be 
satisfied ; the passions may prevail against the judgment. Con- 



LECT. XXV.] OR PUBLIC SPEAKING. 275 

viction is, however, always one avenue to the inclination, or 
heart ; and it is that which an Orator must first bend his strength 
to gain : for no persuasion is likely to be stable which is not 
founded on conviction. But, in order to persuade, the Orator 
must go farther than merely producing conviction ; he must con- 
sider man as a creature moved by many different springs, and 
must act upon them all. He must address himself to the pas- 
sions ; he must paint to the fancy, and touch the heart ; and 
hence, besides solid argument, and clear method, all the con- 
ciliating and interesting arts, both of Composition and Pronun- 
ciation, enter into the idea of Eloquence. 

An objection may, perhaps, hence be formed against Elo- 
quence, as an Art which may be employed for persuading to ill 
as well as to good. There is no doubt that it may ; and so 
reasoning may also be, and too often is employed, for leading 
men into error. But who would think of forming an argument 
from this against the cultivation of our reasoning powers ? 
Reason, Eloquence, and every Art which ever has been studied 
among mankind, may be abused, and may prove dangerous in 
the hands of bad men ; but it were perfectly childish to contend, 
that, upon this account, they ought to be abolished. Give truth 
and virtue the same arms which you give vice and falsehood, 
and the former are likely to prevail. Eloquence is no invention 
of the schools. Nature teaches every man to be eloquent, when 
he is much in earnest. Place him in some critical situation ; let 
him have some great interest at stake, and you will see him lay 
hold of the most effectual means of persuasion. The Art of 
Oratory proposes nothing more than to follow out that track which 
nature has first pointed out. And the more exactly that this 
track is pursued, the more that Eloquence is properly studied, 
the more shall we be guarded against the abuse which bad men 
make of it, and enabled the better to distinguish between true 
Eloquence and the tricks of Sophistry. 

We may distinguish three kinds, or degrees, of Eloquence. 
The first, and lowest, is that which aims only at pleasing the 
hearers. Such, generally, is the Eloquence of panegyrics, inau- 
gural orations, addresses to great men, and other harangues of 
this sort. This ornamental sort of Composition is not altogether 
to be rejected. It may innocently amuse and entertain the 
mind ; and it may be mixed, at the same time, with very useful 
sentiments. But it must be confessed, that where the speaker 
has no farther aim than merely to shine and to please, there is 
great danger of Art being strained into ostentation, and of the 
Composition becoming tiresome and languid. 

A second and higher degree of Eloquence is when the Speaker 
aims not merely to please, but also to inform, to instruct, to 
convince : when his Art is exerted in removing prejudices 
against himself and his cause, in choosing the most proper argu- 
ments, stating them with the greatest force, arranging them in 



276 ' ELOQUENCE. [LECT. XXV. 

the best order, expressing and delivering them with propriety 
and beauty ; and thereby disposing us to pass that judgment, or 
embrace that side of the cause, to which he seeks to bring us. 
Within this compass, chiefly, is employed the Eloquence of the 
bar. 

But there is a third, and still higher degree of Eloquence, 
wherein a greater power is exerted over the human mind ; by 
which we are not only convinced but are interested, agitated, 
and carried along with the Speaker ; our passions are made to 
rise together with his ; we enter into all his emotions ; we love, 
we detest, we resent, according as he inspires us ; and are 
prompted to resolve or to act, with vigour and warmth. Debate, 
in popular assemblies, opens the most illustrious field to this 
species of Eloquence ; and the pulpit, also, admits it. 

I am here to observe, and the observation is of consequence, 
that the high Eloquence which I have last mentioned, is always 
the offspring of passion. By passion, I mean that state of the 
mind in which it is agitated, and fired, by some object it has in 
view. A man may convince, and even persuade others to act, 
by mere reason and argument. But that degree of Eloquence 
which gains the admiration of mankind, and properly denominates 
one an Orator, is never found without warmth or passion. Passion, 
when in such a degree as to rouse and kindle the mind, without 
throwing it out of the possession of itself, is universally found to 
exalt all the human powers. It renders the mind infinitely more 
enlightened, more penetrating, more vigorous and masterly, than 
it is in its calm moments. A man, actuated by a strong passion, 
becomes much greater than he is at other times. He is con- 
scious of more strength and force ; he utters greater sentiments, 
conceives higher designs, and executes them with a boldness and 
a felicity, of which, on other occasions, he could not think him- 
self capable. But chiefly with respect to persuasion, is the power 
of passion felt. Almost every man, in passion, is eloquent. 
Then he is at no loss for words and arguments. He transmits 
to others, by a sort of contagious sympathy, the warm sentiments 
w T hich he feels : his looks and gestures are all persuasive ; and 
nature here show r s herself infinitely more powerful than Art. 
This is the foundation of that just and noted rule : " Si vis me 
flere, dolendum est primum ipsi tibi." 

This principle being once admitted, that all high Eloquence 
flows from passion, several consequences follow, which deserve 
to be attended to ; and the mention of which will serve to con- 
firm the principle itself. For hence the universally acknow- 
ledged effect of enthusiasm, or warmth of any kind, in Public 
Speakers, for affecting their audience. Hence all laboured 
declamation, and affected ornaments of Style, which show the 
mind to be cool and unmoved, are so inconsistent with Persuasive 
Eloquence. Hence all studied prettinesses, in gesture or pro- 
nunciation, detract so greatly from the weight of a Speaker. 



LECT. XXV.] GRECIAN ELOQUENCE. 277 

Hence a discourse that is read, moves us less than one that is 
spoken, as having less the appearance of coming warm from the 
heart. Hence, to call a man cold, is the same thing as to say 
that he is not eloquent. Hence a sceptical man, who is always 
in suspense, and feels nothing strongly ; or a cunning mercenary 
man, who is suspected rather to assume the appearance of passion 
than to feel it ; have so little power over men in Public Speaking. 
Hence, in fine, the necessity of being, and being believed to be, 
disinterested, and in earnest, in order to persuade. 

These are some of the capital ideas which have occurred to 
me, concerning Eloquence in general; and with which I have 
thought proper to begin, as the foundation of much of what I 
am afterwards to suggest. From what I have already said, it is 
evident that Eloquence is a high talent, and of great importance 
in society ; and that it requires both natural genius and much 
improvement from Art. Viewed as the Art of Persuasion, it 
requires, in the lowest state, soundness of understanding, and 
considerable acquaintance with human nature ; and in its higher 
degrees, it requires, moreover, strong sensibility of mind, a warm 
and lively imagination, joined with correctness of judgment, and 
an extensive command of the power of Language ; to which 
must also be added the graces of Pronunciation and Delivery. — 
Let us next proceed to consider in what state Eloquence has 
subsisted in different ages and nations. 

It is an observation made by several writers, that Eloquence is 
to be looked for only in free states. Longinus, in particular, at 
the end of his treatise on the sublime, when assigning the reason 
why so little sublimity of genius appeared in the age wherein 
he lived, illustrates this observation with a great deal of beauty. 
Liberty, he remarks, is the nurse of true genius ; it animates 
the spirit, and invigorates the hopes of men ; excites honourable 
emulation, and a desire of excelling in every Art. All other 
qualifications, he says, you may find among those who are 
deprived of liberty ; but never did a slave become an orator ; 
he can only be a pompous flatterer. Now, though this reasoning 
be, in the main, true ; it must, however, be understood with 
some limitations. For, under arbitrary governments, if they be 
of a civilized kind, and give encouragement to the arts, orna- 
mented Eloquence may flourish remarkably. Witness France 
at this day, where ever since the reign of Louis XIY. more of 
what may be justly called Eloquence, within a certain sphere, is 
to be found, than, perhaps, in any other nation in Europe; 
though freedom be enjoyed by some nations in a much greater 
degree. The French Sermons and orations pronounced on 
public occasions, are not only polite and elegant harangues, but 
several of them -are uncommonly spirited, are animated with 
bold figures, and rise to a degree of the Sublime. Their 
Eloquence, however, in general, must be confessed to be of the 
flowery rather than the vigorous kind ; calculated more to please 



278 GRECIAN ELOQUENCE. [LECT. XXV. 

and sooth, than to convince and persuade. High, manly, and 
forcible Eloquence is, indeed, to be looked for only, or chiefly, 
in the regions of freedom. Under arbitrary governments, 
besides the general turn of softness and effeminacy which such 
governments may be justly supposed to give to the spirit of a 
nation, the art of speaking cannot be such an instrument of 
ambition, business, and power, as it is in democratical states. 
It is confined within a narrower range ; it can be employed only 
in the pulpit or at the bar ; but is excluded from those great 
scenes of public business, where the spirits of men have the 
freest exertion ; where important affairs are transacted, and per- 
suasion, of course, is more seriously studied. Wherever man 
can acquire most power over man by means of reason and dis- 
course, which certainly is under a free state of government, 
there we may naturally expect that true Eloquence will be best 
understood, and carried to the greatest height. 

Hence, in tracing the rise of Oratory, we need not attempt 
to go far back into the early ages of the world, or search for it 
among the monuments of Eastern or Egyptian antiquity. In 
those ages, there was, indeed, an eloquence of a certain kind ; 
but it approached nearer to Poetry, than to what we properly 
call Oratory. There is reason to believe, as I formerly showed, 
that the Language of the first ages was passionate and meta- 
phorical; owing partly to the scanty stock of words of which 
Speech then consisted ; and partly to the tincture which Lan- 
guage naturally takes from the savage and uncultivated state of 
men, agitated by unrestrained passions, and struck by events 
which to them are strange and surprising. In this state rapture 
and enthusiasm, the Parents of Poetry, had an ample field. 
But while the intercourse of men was as yet unfrequent, and 
force and strength were the chief means employed in deciding 
controversies, the arts of Oratory and Persuasion, of Reasoning 
and Debate, could be but little known. The first Empires that 
arose, the Assyrian and Egyptian, were of the despotic kind. 
The whole power was in the hands of one, or at most of a few. 
The multitude were accustomed to a blind reverence ; they were 
led, not persuaded ; and none of those refinements of society, 
which make public speaking an object of importance, were as yet 
introduced. 

It is not till the rise of the Grecian Republics that we find any 
remarkable appearances of Eloquence as the art of persuasion ; 
and these gave it such a field as it never had before, and, perhaps, 
has never had again since that time. And, therefore, as the 
Grecian Eloquence has ever been the object of admiration to 
those who have studied the powers of Speech, it is necessary that 
we fix our attention for a little on this period. 

Greece was divided into a multitude of petty states. These 
were governed, at first, by kings who were called Tyrants ; on 
whose expulsion from all these states, there sprung up a great 



LECT. XXV.] GRECIAN ELOQUENCE. 279 

number of democratical governments, founded nearly on the 
same plan, animated by the same high spirit of freedom, mutu- 
ally jealous, and rivals of one another. We may compute the 
flourishing period of those Grecian states to have lasted from the 
battle of Marathon till the time of Alexander the Great, who 
subdued the liberties of Greece; a period which comprehends 
about 150 years, and within which are to be found most of their 
celebrated poets and philosophers, but chiefly their Orators ; for 
though poetry and philosophy were not extinct among them after 
that period, yet eloquence hardly made any figure. 

Of these Grecian Republics, the most noted by far for Elo- 
quence, and, indeed, for arts of every kind, was that of Athens. 
The Athenians were an ingenious, quick, sprightly people; 
practised in business, and sharpened by frequent and sudden 
revolutions, which happened in their government. The genius of 
their government was altogether democratical ; their legislature 
consisted of the whole body of the people. They had, indeed, 
a senate of five hundred; but in the general convention of the 
citizens was placed the last resort ; and affairs were conducted 
there, entirely, by reasoning, speaking, and a skilful application 
to the passions and interests of a popular assembly. There laws 
were made, peace and war decreed, and thence the magistrates 
were chosen. For the highest honours of the state were alike 
open to all; nor was the meanest tradesman excluded from a 
seat in their supreme courts. In such a state, Eloquence, it is 
obvious, would be much studied, as the surest means of rising to 
influence and power ; and what sort of Eloquence ? Not that 
which was brilliant merely, and showy, but that which was 
found, upon trial, to be most effectual for convincing, interesting, 
and persuading the hearers. For there, public speaking was not 
a mere competition for empty applause, but a serious contention 
for that public leading, which was the great object both of the 
men of ambition, and the men of virtue. 

In so enlightened and acute a nation, where the highest 
attention was paid to every thing elegant in the arts, we may 
naturally expect to find the public taste refined and judicious. 
Accordingly, it was improved to such a degree, that the Attic 
taste and Attic manner have passed into a proverb. It is true, 
that ambitious demagogues, and corrupt orators, did sometimes 
dazzle and mislead the people, by a showy but false Eloquence ; 
for the Athenians, with all their acuteness, were factious and 
giddy, and great admirers of every novelty. But when some 
important interest drew their attention, when any great danger 
roused them, and put their judgment to a serious trial, they 
commonly distinguished, very justly, between genuine and spu- 
rious Eloquence : and hence Demosthenes triumphed over all 
his opponents ; because he spoke always to the purpose, affected 
no insignificant parade of words, used weighty arguments, and 
showed them clearly where their interest lay. In critical con- 



280 GRECIAN ELOQUENCE. [LECT. XXV. 

junctures of the state, when the public was alarmed with some 
pressing danger, when the people were assembled, and procla- 
mation was made by the crier, for any one to rise and deliver 
his opinion upon the present situation of affairs, empty declama- 
tion and sophistical reasoning would not only have been hissed, 
but resented and punished by an assembly so intelligent and 
accustomed to business. Their greatest Orators trembled on 
such occasions, when they rose to address the people, as they 
knew they were to be held answerable for the issue of the 
counsel which they gave. The most liberal endowments of the 
greatest princes never could found such a School for true 
Oratory as was formed by the nature of the Athenian Republic. 
Eloquence there sprung, native and vigorous, from amidst the 
contentions of faction and freedom, of public business and of 
active life ; and not from that retirement and speculation, which 
we are apt sometimes to fancy more favourable to Eloquence 
than they are found to be. 

Pysistratus, who was contemporary with Solon, and subverted 
his plan of government, is mentioned by Plutarch as the first 
who distinguished himself among the Athenians by application 
to the Arts of Speech. His ability in these arts he employed 
for raising himself to the sovereign power; which, however, 
when he had attained it, he exercised with moderation. Of the 
Orators who flourished between his time and the Peloponnesian 
war, no particular mention is made in history. Pericles, who 
died about the beginning of that war, was properly the first who 
carried Eloquence to a great height ; to such a height, indeed, 
that it does not appear he was ever afterwards surpassed. He 
was more than an Orator; he was also a Statesman and a 
General ; expert in business, and of consummate address. Forty 
years he governed Athens with absolute sway; and historians 
ascribe his influence, not more to his political talents than to his 
Eloquence, which was of that forcible and vehement kind, that 
bore every thing before it, and triumphed over the passions and 
affections of the people. Hence he had the surname of Olym- 
pias given him : and it was said, that, like Jupiter, he thun- 
dered when he spoke. Though his ambition be liable to censure, 
yet he was distinguished for several virtues ; and it was the con- 
fidence which the people reposed in his integrity, that gave such 
a powerful effect to his Eloquence. He appears to have been 
generous, magnanimous, and public-spirited : he raised no for- 
tune to himself; he expended indeed great sums of the public 
money, but chiefly on public works ; and at his death is said to 
have valued himself principally on having never obliged any 
citizen to wear mourning on his account, during his long 
administration. It is a remarkable particular recorded of Peri- 
cles by Suidas, and he was the first Athenian who composed, and 
put into writing, a discourse designed for the Public. 

Posterior to Pericles, in the course of the Peloponnesian war, 



LECT. XXV.] GRECIAN ELOQUENCE. 281 

arose Cleon, Alcibiades, Critias, and Theramenes, eminent 
citizens of Athens, who were all distinguished for their Elo- 
quence. They were not Orators by profession ; they were not 
formed by schools, but by a much more powerful education, that 
of business and debate; where man sharpened man, and civil 
affairs carried on by public speaking, brought every power of the 
mind into action. The manner or Style of Oratory which then 
prevailed, we learn from the Orations in the History of Thucy- 
dides, who also nourished in the same age. It was manly, 
vehement, and concise, even to some degree of obscurity. 
" Grandes erant verbis," says Cicero, " crebri sententiis, com- 
pression rerum breves, et, ob earn ipsam causam, interdum sub- 
obscuri."* A manner very different from what in modern times 
we would conceive to be the Style of popular Oratory ; and 
which tends to give a high idea of the acuteness of those audi- 
ences to which they spoke. 

The power of Eloquence having, after the days of Pericles, 
become an objeet of greater consequence than ever, this gave 
birth to a set of men till then unknown, called Rhetoricians, and 
sometimes Sophists, who arose in multitudes during the Pelo- 
ponnesian war : such as Protagoras, Prodicas, Thrasymus, and 
one who was more eminent than all the rest, Gorgias of Leon- 
tium. These Sophists joined to their art of rhetoric a subtle 
logic, and were generally a sort of metaphysical Sceptics. 
Gorgias, however, was a professed master of Eloquence only. 
His reputation was prodigious. He was highly venerated in 
Leontium of Sicily, his native city, and money was coined with 
his name upon it. In the latter part of his life, he established 
himself at Athens, and lived till he had attained the age of 105 
years. Hermogenes (de Ideis, lib. ii. cap. 9), has preserved a 
fragment of his, from which we see his style and manner. It is 
extremely quaint and artificial; full of antithesis and pointed 
expression ; and shows how far the Grecian subtilty had already 
carried the study of Language. These Rhetoricians did not 
content themselves with delivering general instructions concern- 
ing Eloquence to their Pupils, and endeavouring to form their 
taste; but they professed the art of giving them receipts for 
making all sorts of Orations ; and of teaching them how to 
speak for, and against, every cause whatever. Upon this plan, 
they were the first who treated of common places, and the arti- 
ficial invention of arguments and topics for every subject. In 
the hands of such men, we may easily believe that Oratory 
would degenerate from the masculine strain it had hitherto held, 
and become a trifling and sophistical art ; and we may justly 
deem them the first corrupters of true Eloquence. To them, 
the great Socrates opposed himself. By a profound but simple 

* " They were magnificent in their expressions ; they abounded in thought ; they 
compressed their matter into few words, and by their brevity were, sometimes, obscure." 

X 



>• 



/ 



282 GRECIAN ELOQUENCE. [LECT. XXV. 

reasoning peculiar to himself, he exploded their sophistry ; and 
endeavoured to recall men's attention from that abuse of rea- 
soning and discourse which began to be in vogue, to natural 
language, and sound and useful thought. 

In the same age, though somewhat later than the philosopher 
above mentioned, nourished Isocrates, whose writings are still 
extant. He was a professed Rhetorician, and by teaching Elo- 
quence, he acquired both a great fortune, and higher fame than 
any of his rivals in that profession. No contemptible Orator he 
was. His orations are full of morality and good sentiments; 
they are flowing and smooth ; but too destitute of vigour. He 
never engaged in public affairs, nor pleaded causes ; and, accord- 
ingly his orations are calculated only for the shade : " Pompse," 
Cicero allows, "magis quam pugnee aptior; ad voluptatem 
aurium accommodatus potius quam ad judiciorum certamen. 5 '* 
The Style of Gorgias of Leontium was formed into short 
sentences, composed generally of two members balanced against 
each other. The Style of Isocrates, on the contrary is swelling 
and full; and he is said to be the first who introduced the 
method of composing in regular periods, which had a studied 
music and harmonious cadence ; a manner which he has carried 
to a vicious excess. What shall we think of an orator, who 
employed ten years in composing one discourse, still extant, 
entitled the Panegyric ? How much frivolous care must have 
been bestowed on all the minute elegance of words and 
sentences ? Dionysius of Halicarnassus has given us upon the 
orations of Isocrates, as also upon those of some other Greek 
orators, a full and regular treatise, which is in my opinion, one 
of the most judicious pieces of ancient criticism extant, and very 
worthy of being consulted. He commends the splendour of 
Isocrates's Style, and the morality of his sentiments ; but 
severely censures his affectation, and the uniform regular cadence 
of all his sentences. He holds him to be a florid declaimer ; not 
a- natural persuasive speaker. Cicero in his critical works 
though he admits his failings, yet discovers a propensity to be 
very favourable to that " plena ac numerosa oratio," that swell- 
ing and musical style which Isocrates introduced; and with the 
love of which, Cicero himself was, perhaps, somewhat infected. 
In one of his treatises (Orat. ad M. Brut.) he informs us, that 
his friend Brutus and he differed in this particular, and that 
Brutus found fault with his partiality to Isocrates. The manner 
of Isocrates generally catches young people, when they begin to 
attend to composition ; and it is very natural that it should do 
so. It gives them an idea of that regularity, cadence, and 
magnificence of style, which fills the ear ; but when they come 
to write or speak for the world, they will find this ostentatious 
manner unfit, either for carrying on business, or commanding 

* li More fitted for show than for debate ; better calculated for the amusement of 
an audience, than for judicial contests." 



LECT. XXV.] DEMOSTHENES. 283 

attention. It is said, that the high reputation of Isocrates 
prompted Aristotle, who was nearly his contemporary, or lived 
but a little after him, to write his Institutions of Rhetoric ; 
which are indeed formed upon a plan of Eloquence very different 
from that of Isocrates, and the Rhetoricians of that time. He 
seems to have had it in view to direct the attention of orators 
much more towards convincing and affecting their hearers, than 
towards the musical cadence of periods. 

Isagus and Lysias, some of whose orations are preserved, 
belong also to this period. Lysias was somewhat earlier than 
Isocrates, and is the model of that manner which the Ancients 
call the " Tenuis vel Subtilis." He has none of Isocrates's 
pomp. He is every where pure and attic in the highest degree ; 
simple and unaffected ; but wants force, and is sometimes frigid 
in his compositions,* Isasus is chiefly remarkable for being the 
master of the great Demosthenes, in whom, it must be acknow- 
ledged, Eloquence shone forth with higher splendour, than 
perhaps in any that ever bore the name of an Orator ; and 
whose manner and character, therefore, must deserve our par- 
ticular attention. 

I shall not spend any time upon the circumstances of Demos- 
thenes's life ; they are well known. The strong ambition which 
he discovered to excel in the art of Speaking ; the unsuccessful- 
ness of his first attempts ; his unwearied perseverance in sur- 

* In the judicious comparison, which Dionysius of Halicarnassus makes of the merits 
of Lysias and Tsocrates, he ascribes to Lysias, as the distinguishing- character of his 
manner, a certain grace or elegance arising from simplicity ; " neqoxE yap h Ava-tov "kifyq 
sp^siv to x«f«Ev h 8' lcroxparovs, @gv\eto.i." " The Style of Lysias has gracefulness for its 
nature ; that of Isocrates seeks to have it." In the art of narration, as distinct, probable, 
and persuasive, he holds Lysias to be superior to all Orators : at the same time, he- 
admits that his composition is more adapted to private litigation than to great subjects. 
He convinces, but he does not elevate nor animate. The magnificence and splendour of 
Isocrates is more suited to great occasions. He is more agreeable than Lysias ; and, in 
dignity of sentiment, far excels him. With regard to the affectation which is visible in 
Isocrates's manner, he concludes what he says of it with the following excellent obser- 
vations, which should never be forgotten by any who aspire to be true orators : " T>fc 
(xsvTci aycuyns toov wsftoSaov to hvhXiov, nai toov <r%t}fA.aTiir(xoov rw? Ae£s<w? to fAEicetxiZSet;, ovx. 
iSoKi/uafyv bovtevt ya.% h Hiavoia TroXXaxtj too gvQfAOO tWj >s£so;j, Hat tov Hoy.-^ov 'htiimat, 
ta aXvBivov x^a-naTov r frtnn^ivfxa sv o\aXsxT<w 7ro"kiT.xw,Hai iyayoovsoo, to ifxoiorarov too hutcl 
4>uo\v, (Sou'hETai Ss h <pva-i$ toij lomfxatriv tmEfQui t»v Xs^tv, ov tv "hifyi nra von<xaTa.' <rvfA&oiXoo 
8s Sn TTEf t ttoXE/MOU Hai Bipnvw; Asj/ovti nai iSj<wt« tov nspi -^v%rig Tfg^ovTi xwtivvov sv 8jxa<TTai? 
ra xc(A-\,a, nai 0SttTfix», xa.i /nei^a, xiaoNi TavTi ovh. otSa hrivu. Swuit' av Ttapaa^ziv ootyEheiav' 
[Aa'k'kov ¥ os8a or* Hai |3Xa£»jj av ania ysvoiro. p£afisvTKT|U.o? yag irat; ev anovln, hui 
xa\oo<; yivofxivoq, aoogov irgay/xa xai TroXSjWooTa tov s^soj." Judic. de Isocrate, p. 558. 
"His studied circumflexion of periods, and juvenile affectation of the flowers of 
speech, I do not approve. The thought is frequently made subservient to the music 
of the sentence ; and elegance is preferred to reason. Whereas, in every discourse, 
where business and affairs are concerned, nature ought to be followed : and nature 
certainly dictates that the expression should be an object subordinate to the sense, not 
the sense to the expression. When one rises to give public counsel concerning war 
and peace, or takes the charge of a private man, who is standing at the bar to be tried 
for his life, those studied decorations, those theatrical graces and juvenile flowers, are out 
of place. Instead of being of service, they are detrimental to the cause we espouse. 
When the contest is of a serious kind, ornaments, which at another time would have 
beauty, then lose their effect, and prove hostile to the affections which we wish to raise 
in our hearers." 

x 2 



284 DEMOSTHENES. [LECT. XXV. 

mounting all the disadvantages that arose from his person and 
address ; his shutting himself up in a cave, that he might study 
with less distraction ; his declaiming by the sea shore, that he 
might accustom himself to the noise of a tumultuous assembly, 
and with pebbles in his mouth that he might correct a defect 
in his speech ; his practising at home with a naked sword hanging 
over his shoulder, that he might check an ungraceful motion, 
to which he was subject ; all those circumstances, which we 
learn from Plutarch, are very encouraging to such as study 
Eloquence, as they show how far art and application may avail, 
for acquiring an excellence which nature seemed unwilling to 
grant us. 

Despising the affected and florid manner which the Rheto- 
ricians of that age followed, Demosthenes returned to the forcible 
and manly eloquence of Pericles ; and strength and vehemence 
form the principal characteristics of his Style. Never had 
orator a finer field than Demosthenes in his Olynthiacs and 
Philippics, which are his capital Orations; and, no doubt, to 
the nobleness of the subject, and to that integrity and public 
spirit which eminently breathe in them, they are indebted for 
much of their merit. The subject is, to rouse the indignation of 
his countrymen againt Philip of Macedon, the public enemy of 
the liberties of Greece ; and to guard them against the insidious 
measures, by which that crafty prince endeavoured to lay them 
asleep to danger. In the prosecution of this end, we see him 
taking every proper method to animate a people, renowned for 
justice, humanity, and valour, but in many instances become 
corrupt and degenerate. He boldly taxes them with their 
venality, their indolence, and indifference to the public cause ; 
while, at the same time, with all the Art of an Orator, he recalls 
the glory of their ancestors to their thoughts, shows them that 
they are still a flourishing and a powerful people, the natural 
protectors of the liberty of Greece, and who wanted only the 
inclination to exert themselves, in order to make Philip tremble. 
With his contemporary orators, who were in Philip's interest, 
and who persuaded the people to peace, he keeps no measures, 
but plainly reproaches them as the betrayers of their country. 
He not only prompts to vigorous conduct, but he lays down the 
plan of that conduct ; he enters into particulars ; and points out 
with great exactness, the measures of execution. This is the 
strain of these Orations. They are strongly animated ; and full 
of the impetuosity and fire of public spirit. They proceed in a 
continued train of inductions, consequences, and demonstrations, 
founded on sound reason. The figures which he uses, are never 
sought after ; but always rise from the subject. He employs 
them sparingly indeed ; for splendour and ornament are not 
the distinctions of this Orator's composition. It is an energy of 
thought peculiar to himself, which forms his character, and sets 
him above all others. He appears to attend much more to things 



LECT. XXV.] DEMOSTHENES. 285 

than to words. We forget the orator, and think of the business. 
He warms the mind, and impels to action. He has no parade 
and ostentation ; no methods of insinuation ; no laboured intro- 
ductions ; but is like a man full of his subject, who, after pre- 
paring his audience by a sentence or two for hearing plain truths, 
enters directly on business. 

Demosthenes appears to great advantage, when contrasted 
with ^Eschines, in the celebrated oration "pro Corona." ^Es- 
chines was his rival in business, and personal enemy ; and one 
of the most distinguished orators of that age. But when we 
read the two orations, -ZEschines is feeble in comparison of 
Demosthenes, and makes much less impression on the mind. 
His reasonings concerning the law that was in question, are 
indeed very subtile ; but his invective against Demosthenes is 
general, and ill supported. Whereas Demosthenes is a torrent, 
that nothing can resist. He bears down his antagonist with 
violence ; he draws his character in the strongest colours ; and 
the particular merit of that Oration is, that all the descriptions 
in it are highly picturesque. There runs through it a strain of 
magnanimity and high honour: the orator speaks with that 
strength and conscious dignity which great actions and public 
spirit alone inspire. Both orators use great liberties with one 
another ; and, in general, that unrestrained license which ancient 
manners permitted, and which was carried by public speakers 
even to the length of abusive names and downright scurrility, 
as appears both here and in Cicero's Philippics, hurts and offends 
a modern ear. What those ancient orators gained by such a 
manner in point of freedom and boldness is more than compen- 
sated by want of dignity ; which seems to give an advantage in 
this respect, to the greater decency of modern speaking. 

The Style of Demosthenes is strong and concise, though 
sometimes, it must not be dissembled, harsh and abrupt. His 
words are very expressive ; his arrangement is firm and manly ; 
and though far from being unmusical, yet it seems difficult to 
find in him that studied, but concealed number and rythmus, 
which some of the ancient critics are fond of attributing to him. 
Negligent of these lesser graces, one would rather conceive him 
to have aimed at that Sublime which lies in sentiment. His 
action and pronunciation are recorded to have been uncommonly 
vehement and ardent ; which, from the manner of his compost 
tion, we are naturally led to believe. The character which one 
forms of him from reading his works, is of the austere, rather 
than the gentle kind. He is, on every occasion, grave, serious, 
passionate ; takes every thing on a high tone ; never lets him- 
self down, nor attempts anything like pleasantry. If any fault 
can be found with his admirable eloquence, it is, that he some- 
times borders on the hard and dry. He may be thought to want 
smoothness and grace ; which Dionysius of Halicarnassus attri- 
butes to his imitating too closely the manner of Thucydides, 



286 ROMAN ELOQUENCE. [LECT. NXVI. 

who was his great model for Style, and whose history he is said 
to have written eight times over with his own hand. But 
these defects are far more than compensated by that admirable 
and masterly force of masculine eloquence, which, as it over- 
powered all who heard it, cannot, at this day, be read without 
emotion. 

After the days of Demosthenes, Greece lost her liberty, Elo- 
quence of course languished, and relapsed again into the feeble 
manner introduced by the Rhetoricians and Sophists. Demetrius 
Phalerius, who lived in the next age to Demosthenes, attained 
indeed some character, but he is represented to us as a flowery, 
rather than a persuasive speaker, who aimed at grace, rather 
than substance. "Delectabat Athenienses," says Cicero, "magis 
quam inflammabat." "He amused the Athenians, rather than 
warmed them." And after his time, we hear of no more 
Grecian Orators of any note. 



LECTURE XXVI. 

HISTORY OF ELOQUENCE CONTINUED. ROMAN ELOQUENCE. 

CICERO. — MODERN ELOQUENCE. 

Having treated of the rise of Eloquence, and of its state 
among the Greeks, we now proceed to consider its progress 
among the Romans, where we shall find one model, at least, of 
Eloquence, in its most splendid and illustrious form. The Ro- 
mans were long a martial nation, altogether rude, and unskilled 
in arts of any kind. Arts were of late introduction among them ; 
they were not known till after the conquest of Greece : and the 
Romans always acknowledged the Grecians as their masters in 
every part of learning : 

Grecia capta ferum victorem cepit, et artes 
Intulit agresti Latio.* Hor. Epist. ad Aug. 

As the Romans derived their eloquence, Poetry, and Learning 
from the Greeks, so they must be confessed to be far inferior to 
them in genius for all these accomplishments. They were a 
more grave and magnificent, but a less acute and sprightly 
people. They had neither the vivacity nor the sensibility of the 
Greeks ; their passions were not so easily moved, nor their con- 
ceptions so lively; in comparison of them they were a phleg- 

* When conquered Greece brought in her captive arts, 
She triumphed o'er her savage conquerors' hearts; 
Taught our rough verse its numbers to refine, 
And our rude Style with elegance to shine. Francis. 



LECT. XXVI.] EOMAN ELOQUENCE. 287 

matic nation. Their language resembled their character ; it was 
regular, firm, and stately ; but wanted that simple and expressive 
naivete, and, in particular, that flexibility to suit every different 
mode and species of composition, for which the Greek tongue is 
distinguished above that of every other country : 

Graiis ingenium, Graiis dedit ore rotundo 

Musa loqui *■ Ars. Poet. 

And hence, when we compare together the various rival produc- 
tions of Greece and Rome, we shall always find this distinction 
obtain, that in the Greek productions there is more native genius ; 
in the Roman more regularity and art. What the Greeks in- 
vented, the Romans polished ; the one was the original, rough 
sometimes, and incorrect ; the other a finished copy. 

As the Roman government during the republic, was of the 
popular kind, there is no doubt but that, in the hands of the lead- 
ing men, public speaking became early an engine of government, 
and was employed for gaining distinction and power. But, in 
the rude unpolished times of the state, their speaking was hardly 
of that sort that could be called Eloquence. Though Cicero, in 
his Treatise, "De Claris Oratoribus," endeavours to give some 
reputation to the elder Cato, and those who were his contem- 
poraries, yet he acknowledges it to have been " Asperum et 
horridum genus dicendi,' J a rude and harsh strain of speech. It 
was not till a short time preceding Cicero's age, that the Roman 
Orators rose into any note. Crassus and Antonius, two of the 
speakers in the dialogue De Oratore, appear to have been the 
most eminent, whose different manners Cicero describes with 
great beauty in that dialogue, and in his other rhetorical works. 
But as none of their productions are extant, nor any of Horten- 
sius's, who was Cicero's contemporary and rival at the bar, it is 
needless to transcribe from Cicero's writings the account which 
he gives of those great men, and of the character of their 
Eloquence. -f 

The object in this period most worthy to draw our attention, 
is Cicero himself; whose name alone suggests every thing that 
is splendid in Oratory. With the history of his life, and with 
his character as a man and a politician, we have not at present 
any direct concern. We consider him only as an eloquent 
Speaker; and, in this view, it is our business to remark both his 
virtues, and his defects, if he has any. His virtues are, beyond 

* To her loved Greeks the Muse indulgent gave, 
To her loved Greeks with greatness to conceive ; 
And in sublimer tone their language raise : 
Her Greeks were only covetous of praise. Francis. 

t Such as are desirous of particular information on this head, had better have recourse 
to the original, by reading Cicero's three books De Oratore, and his other two treatises, 
entitled, the one, Brutus. Sive de Claris Oratoribus ; the other, Orator ad M. Brutum ; 
which, on several accounts, well deserve perusal. 



288 CICERO. [lect. XXVI. 

controversy, eminently great. In all his Orations there is high 
art. He begins, generally, with a regular exordium ; and with 
much preparation and insinuation prepossesses the hearers, and 
studies to gain their affections. His method is clear, and his 
arguments are arranged with great propriety. His method is 
indeed more clear than that of Demosthenes : and this is one 
advantage which he has over him. We find every thing in its 
proper place ; he never attempts to move, till he has endeavoured 
to convince ; and in moving, especially the softer passions, he is 
very successful. ~No man knew the power and force of words 
better than Cicero. He rolls them along with the greatest 
beauty and pomp; and, in the structure of his sentences, is 
curious and exact to the highest degree. He is always full and 
flowing, never abrupt. He is a great amplifier of every subject ; 
magnificent, and in his sentiments highly moral. His manner is 
on the whole diffuse, yet it is often happily varied, and suited to 
the subject. In his four Orations, for instance, against Catiline, 
the tone and style of each of them, particularly the first and 
last, is very different, and accommodated with a great deal of 
judgment to the occasion, and the situation in which they were 
spoken. When a great public object roused his mind, and 
demanded indignation and force, he departs considerably from 
that loose and declamatory manner to which he leans at other 
times, and becomes exceedingly cogent and vehement. This is 
the case in his Orations against Anthony, and in those two 
against Yerres and Catiline. 

Together with those high qualities which Cicero possesses, he 
is not exempt from certain defects, of which it is necessary to 
take notice. For the Ciceronian Eloquence is a pattern so 
dazzling by its beauties, that, if not examined with accuracy and 
judgment, it is apt to betray the unwary into a faulty imitation ; 
and I am of opinion, that it has sometimes produced this effect. 
In most of his Orations, especially those composed in the earlier 
part of his life, there is too much art ; even carried to the length 
of ostentation. There is too visible a parade of Eloquence, He 
seems often to aim at obtaining admiration, rather than at 
operating conviction, by what he says. Hence, on some occa- 
sions, he is showy rather than solid ; and diffuse, where he ought 
to have been pressing. His sentences are, at all times, round 
and sonorous : they cannot be accused of monotony, for they 
possess variety of cadence ; but, from too great a study of mag- 
nificence, he is sometimes deficient in strength. On all occasions, 
where there is the least room for it, he is full of himself. His 
great actions, and the real services which he had performed to 
his country, apologize for this in part ; ancient manners, too, 
imposed fewer restraints from the side of decorum; but, even 
after these allowances made, Cicero's ostentation of himself 
cannot be wholly palliated ; and his Orations, indeed all his 



LECT. XXVI.] CICEEO. 289 

works, leave on our minds the impression of a good man, but 
withal, of a vain man. 

The defects which we have now taken notice of in Cicero's 
Eloquence were not unobserved by his own contemporaries. 
This we learn from Quinctilian, and from the author of the 
dialogue "De Causis Corrupts Eloquentiae." Brutus, we are 
informed, called him, " fractum et elumbem," broken and ener- 
vated. " Suorum temporum homines," says Quinctilian, "inces- 
sere audebant eum ut tumidiorem et Asianum, et redundantem, 
et in repetitionibus nimium, et in salibus aliquando frigidum, et 
in compositione fractum et exsultantum, et pene viro molliorem."* 
These censures were undoubtedly carried too far ; and savour of 
malignity and personal enmity. They saw his defects, but they 
aggravated them ; and the source of these agitations can be 
traced to the difference which prevailed in Rome in Cicero's 
days, between two great parties with respect to Eloquence ; the 
" Attici," and the " Asiani." The former, who called themselves 
the Attics, were the patrons of what they conceived to be the 
chaste, simple, and natural Style of Eloquence ; from which 
they accused Cicero as having departed, and as leaning to the 
florid Asiatic manner. In several of his rhetorical works, par- 
ticularly in his " Orator ad Brutum," Cicero, in his turn, endea- 
vours to expose this sect, as substituting a frigid and jejune 
manner, in place of the true Attic Eloquence ; and contends 
that his own composition was formed upon the real Attic style. 
In the tenth chapter of the last book of Quinctilian's Institu- 
tions, a full account is given of the disputes between these two 
parties, and of the Rhodian or middle manner between the 
Attics and the Asiatics. Quinctilian himself declares on 
Cicero's side ; and whether it be called the Attic or the Asiatic, 
prefers the full, the copious, and the amplifying Style. He 
concludes with this very just observation : " Plures sunt elo- 
quentiae facies; sed stultissimum est quaerere, ad quam recturus 
se sit orator; cum omnis species, quae moda recta est, habeat 
usum. — Utetur enim, ut res exiget, omnibus ; nee pro causa 
modo, sed pro parti bus causae."! 

On the subject of comparing Cicero and Demosthenes, much 
has been said by critical writers. The different manners of these 
two princes of Eloquence, and the distinguishing characters of 
each, are so strongly marked in their writings, that the com- 
parison is, in many respects, obvious and easy. The character 
of Demosthenes is vigour and austerity; that of Cicero is gen- 

* '* His contemporaries ventured to reproach him as swelling, redundant, and Asiatic; 
too frequent in repetitions ; in his attempts towards wit sometimes cold ; and in the 
strain of his composition, feeble, desultory, and more effeminate than became a man." 

+ " Eloquence admits of many different forms ; and nothing can be more foolish than 
to inquire by which of them an orator is to regulate his composition ; since every form 
which is in itself just, has its own place and use. The orator, according as circum- 
stances require, will employ them all ; suiting them not only to the cause or subject of 
which he treats, but to the different parts of that subject." 



290 COMPARISON OP CICERO [LECT. XXVI. 

tleness and insinuation. In the one, you find more manliness ; 
in the other, more ornament. The one is more harsh, but more 
spirited and cogent ; the other, more agreeable, but withal, 
looser and weaker. 

To account for this difference, without any prejudice to Cicero, 
it has been said, that we must look to the nature of their 
different auditories: that the refined Athenians followed with 
ease the concise and convincing Eloquence of Demosthenes; 
but that a manner more popular, more flowery, and declamatory, 
was requisite in speaking to the Romans, a people less acute, and 
less acquainted with the arts of speech. But this is not satis- 
factory. For we must observe, that the Greek orator spoke 
much oftener before a mixed multitude, than the Roman. Al- 
most all the public business of Athens was transacted in popular 
assemblies. The common people were his hearers, and his 
judges. Whereas Cicero generally addressed himself to the 
" Patres Conscripti," or in criminal trials to the Praetor, and the 
select Judges; and it cannot be imagined, that the persons 
of highest rank and best education in Rome, required a more 
diffuse manner of pleading than the common citizens of Athens, 
in order to make them understand the cause, or relish the 
speaker. Perhaps we shall come nearer the truth, by observing, 
that to unite all the qualities, without the least exception, that 
form a perfect orator, and to excel equally in each of those 
qualities, is not to be expected from the limited powers of 
, human genius. The highest degree of strength is, I suspect, 
\l never found united with the highest degree of smoothness and 
A ornament ; equal attentions to both are incompatible ; and the 
genius that carries ornament to its utmost length, is not of such 
a kind, as can excel as much in vigour. For there plainly lies 
the characteristical difference between these two celebrated 
orators. 

It is a disadvantage to Demosthenes, that, besides his con- 
ciseness, which sometimes produces obscurity, the language in 
which he writes is less familiar to most of us than the Latin, 
and that we are less acquainted with the Greek antiquities 
than we are with the Roman. We read Cicero with more 
ease, and of course with more pleasure. Independent of this 
circumstance, too, he is, no doubt, in himself, a more agree- 
able writer than the other. But notwithstanding this advan- 
tage, I am of opinion, that were the state in danger, or some 
great national interest at stake, which drew the serious at- 
tention of the public, an oration in the spirit and strain of 
Demosthenes would have more weight, and produce greater 
effects, than one in the Ciceronian manner. Were Demos- 
thenes's Philippics spoken in a British assembly, in a similar 
conjuncture of affairs, they would convince and persuade at 
this day. The rapid style, the vehement reasoning, the dis- 
dain, anger, boldness, freedom, which perpetually animate 



LECT. XXVI.] WITH DEMOSTHENES. 291 

them, would render their success infallible over any modern 
assembly. I question whether the same can be said of 
Cicero's orations; whose eloquence, however beautiful, and 
however well suited to the Roman taste, yet borders oftener 
on declamation, and is more remote from the manner in which 
we now expect to hear real business and causes of impor- 
tance treated.* 

In comparing Demosthenes and Cicero, most of the French 
critics are disposed to give the preference to the latter. P. 
Rapin the Jesuit, in the parallels which he has drawn be- 
tween some of the most eminent Greek and Roman writers, 
uniformly decides in favour of the Roman. For the preference 
which he gives to Cicero, he assigns, and lays stress on one 
reason of a pretty extraordinary nature; viz. that Demos- 
thenes could not possibly have so complete an insight as 
Cicero into the manners and passions of men ; Why ? Be- 
cause he had not the advantage of perusing Aristotle's Treatise 
of Rhetoric, wherein, says our critic, he has fully laid open 
that mystery : and to support this weighty argument, he enters 
into a controversy with A. Gellius, in order to prove that Aris- 
totle's Rhetoric was not published till after Demosthenes had 
spoken, at least his most considerable orations. Nothing can be 
more childish. Such orators as Cicero and Demosthenes de- 
rived their knowledge of the human passions, and their power 
of moving them, from higher sources than' any treatise of 
Rhetoric. One French critic has indeed departed from the 
common track; and, after bestowing on Cicero those just 
praises to which the consent of so many ages shows him to 
be entitled, concludes, however, with giving the palm to Demos- 
thenes. This is Fenelon, the famous Archbishop of Cambray, 
and author of Telemachus ; himself surely no enemy to all 
the graces and flowers of Composition. It is in his Reflections 
on Rhetoric and Poetry, that he gives this judgment ; a small 
tract, commonly published along with his Dialogues on Elo- 
quence, f These dialogues and reflections are particularly 

* In this judgment I concur with Mr. David Hume, in his Essay upon Eloquence. 
He gives it as his opinion, that, of all human productions, the Orations of Demosthenes 
present to us the models which approach the nearest to perfection. 

f As his expressions are remarkably happy and beautiful, the passage here referred to 
deserves to he inserted. — " Je ne crains pas dire, que Demosthene me paroit superieur 
a Ciceroa. Je proteste que personji'admire plus Ciceron que je fais. II embellit tout- h* 
ce qu'il touche. II fait honneur a la parole. II fait des mots ce qu'un autre n'en sau- 
roit faire. II a je ne sai'combien de sortes d'esprits. 11 est meme court, et vehement, 
tous les fois qu'il veut 1'estre ; contre Catiline, contre Verres, contre Antoine. Mais 
on remarque quelque parure dans son discours. L'art y est marveilleux ; mais on 
Tentrevoit. L'orateur en pensant au salut de 3a republique, ne s'oublie pas, et ne se 
laisse pas oublier. Demosthene paroit sortir de soi, et ne voir que la patrie. II 
ne cherche point le beau ; il le fait, sans y penser. II est au-dessus de l'admiration. 11 
se sert de la parole, comme un homme modeste de son habit, pour se couvrir. II tonne \ 
il foudroye. C'est un torrent qui entraine tout. On ne peut le critiquer, parcequ'on 
est saisi. On pense aux choses qu'il dit, et non a ses paroles. On le perd de vue. On 
n'est occupe que de Philippe qui envahit tout. Je suis charme de ces deux orateurs : 



292 DECAY OF [LECT. XXVI. 

v I worthy of perusal, as containing, I think, the justest ideas on 
the subject that are to be met with in any modern critical writer. 
The reign of Eloquence, among the Romans, was very short. 
After the age of Cicero, it languished, or rather expired ; and 
we have no reason to wonder at this being the case. For not 
only was liberty entirely extinguished, but arbitrary power felt 
in its heaviest and most oppressive weight ; Providence having, 
in its wrath, delivered over the Roman empire to a succession of 
some of the most execrable tyrants that ever disgraced and 
scourged the human race. Under their government, it was 
naturally to be expected that taste would be corrupted, and 
genius discouraged. Some of the ornamental arts, less in- 
timately connected with liberty, continued for a while, to 
prevail ; but for that masculine Eloquence, which had exercised 
itself in the senate, and in the public affairs, there was no longer 
any place. The change which was produced on Eloquence, by 
the nature of the government, and the state of the public 
manners, is beautifully described in the Dialogue de Causis 
Corrupts Eloquentise, which is attributed by some to Tacitus, 
by others to Quinctilian. Luxury, effeminacy, and flattery, 
overwhelmed all. The Forum, where so many great affairs had 
been transacted, was now become a desert. Private causes 
were still pleaded ; but the public was no longer interested ; nor 
any general attention drawn to what passed there : " Unus inter 
hsec, et alter, dicenti, assistit; et res velut in solitudine 
agitur. Oratori autem clamore plausuque opus est, et velut 
quodam theatro, qualia quotidie antiquis oratoribus continge- 
bant ; cum tot ac tarn nobiles forum coarctarent ; cum client elae, 
et tribus, et municipiorum legationes, periclitantibus assisterent; 
cum in plerisque judiciis crederet populus Romanus sua in- 
teresse quid judicaretur." # . 

In the schools of the declaimers, the corruption of Eloquence 
was completed. Imaginary and fantastic subjects, such as 
had no reference to real life or business, were made the themes 
of declamation ; and all manner of false and affected ornaments 
were brought into vogue : " Pace vestra liceat dixisse," says 
Petronius Arbiter, to the declaimers of his time, " primi omnem 
eloquentiam perdidistis. Levibus enim ac inanibus sonis ludi- 
bria quaedam excitando, effecistis ut corpus orationis enervaretur 
atque caderet. Et ideo ego existimo adolescent ulos in scho- 
lis stultissimos fieri, quia nihil ex iis, quae in usu habemus, 
aut andiunt, aut vident ; sed piratas cum catenis in littore 

mais j'avoue que je suis moins touche" de Tart infini, et de la magnifique eloquence 
de Ciceron, que de la rapide simplicite de Demosthene." 

* " The Courts of Judicature are, at present, so unfrequented, that the orator seems 
to stand alone, and talk to bare walls. But Eloquence rejoices in the bursts of loud ap- 
plause, and exults in a full audience ; such as used to press round the ancient Orators, 
when the Forum stood crowded with nobles ; when a numerous retinue of clients, when 
foreign ambassadors, when tribes, and whole cities assisted at the debate ; and when, in 
many trials, the Roman people understood themselves to be concerned in the event." 



LECT. XXVI.] ROMAN ELOQUENCE. * 293 

stantes; et tyrannos edicta scribentes quibus imperent filiis 
ut patrum suorum capita prsecidant ; sed responsa, in pes- 
tilentia data, ut virgines tres aut plures immolentur ; sed 
mellitos verborum globulos, et omnia quasi papavere et 
sesamo sparsa. Qui inter haec nutriuntur, non magis sapere 
possunt, quam bene olere qui in culina habitant." * In the 
hands of the Greek rhetoricians, the manly and sensible elo- 
quence of their first noted speakers degenerated, as I formerly 
showed, into subtilty and sophistry; in the hands of Roman 
declaimers, it passed into the quaint and affected; into point 
and antithesis. This corrupt manner begins to appear in the 
writings of Seneca ; and shows itself also in the famous pane- 
gyric of Pliny the younger, on Trajan, which may be considered 
as the last effort of Roman oratory. Though the author was 
a man of genius, yet it is deficient in nature and ease. We see, 
throughout the whole, a perpetual attempt to depart from the 
ordinary way of thinking, and to support a forced elevation. 

In the decline of the Roman Empire, the introduction of 
Christianity gave rise to a new species of Eloquence, in the apo- 
logies, sermons, and pastoral writings of the Fathers of the 
Church. Among the Latin fathers, Lactantius and Minutius 
Felix are the most remarkable for purity of Style ; and in 
a later age, the famous St. Augustine possesses a considerable 
share of sprightliness and strength. But none of the fathers 
afford any just models of eloquence. Their language, as soon as 
we descend to the third or fourth century, becomes harsh ; and 
they are, in general, infected with the taste of that age, a love of 
swoln and strained thoughts, and of the play of words. Among 
the Greek fathers, the most distinguished, by far, for his 
oratorical merit, is St. Chrysostome. His language is pure ; 
his style highly figured. He is copious, smooth, and sometimes 
pathetic. But he retains, at the same time, much of that 
character which has been always attributed to the Asiatic 
Eloquence, diffuse and redundant to a great degree, and often 
overwrought and tumid. He may be read, however, with 
advantage, for the eloquence of the pulpit, as being freer from 
false ornaments than the Latin fathers. 

As there is nothing more that occurs, to me deserving parti- 
cular attention in the middle age, I pass now to the state of 

*' " With your permission, I must be allowed to say, that you have been the first 
destroyers of all true Eloquence. For by those mock subjects, on which you employ 
your empty and unmeaning compositions, you have enervated and overthrown all that is 
manly and substantial in Oratory. I cannot but conclude, that the youth whom you 
educate, must be totally perverted in your schools, by hearing and seeing nothing which 
has ^any affinity to real life, or human affairs; but stories of pirates standing on the 
shore, provided with chains for loading their captives, and of tyrants issuing their edicts, 
by which children are commanded to cut off the heads of their parents ; but responses 
given by oracles in the time of pestilence, that several virgins must be sacrificed ; but 
glittering ornaments of phrase, and a style highly spiced, if we may say"so, with affected 
conceits. They who are educated in the midst of such studies, can no more acquire a 
good taste, than they can smell sweet who dwell perpetually in a kitchen." 



294 MODERN ELOQUENCE. [LECT. XXVI. 

Eloquence in modern times. Here, it must be confessed, that 
in no European nation, Public Speaking has been considered as 
so great an object, or been cultivated with so much care, as 
in Greece or Rome. Its reputation has never been so high ; its 
effects have never been so considerable ; nor has that high and 
sublime kind of it, which prevailed in those ancient states, been 
so much as aimed at : notwithstanding, too, that a new profes- 
sion has been established, which gives peculiar advantages to 
oratory, and affords it the noblest field ; I mean that of the 
church. The genius of the world seems, in this respect, to have 
undergone some alteration. The two countries where we might 
expect to find most of the spirit of Eloquence, are France 
and Great Britain : France, on account of the distinguished 
turn of the nation towards all the liberal arts, and of the 
encouragement which, for this century past, these arts have 
received from the public; Great Britain, on account both of 
the public capacity and genius, and of the free government 
which it enjoys. Yet so it is, that in neither of those countries 
has the talent of Public Speaking risen near to the degree of its 
ancient splendour. While in other productions of genius, both 
in prose and in poetry, they have contended for the prize with 
Greece and Rome ; nay, in some compositions, may be thought 
to have surpassed them ; the names of Demosthenes and Cicero 
stand, at this day, unrivalled in fame ; and it would be held pre- 
sumptuous and absurd, to pretend to place any modern whatever 
in the same, or even in a nearly equal rank. 

It seems particularly surprising, that Great Britain should 
not have made a more conspicuous figure in Eloquence than it 
has hitherto attained ; when we consider the enlightened, and, at 
the same time, the free and bold genius of the country, which 
seems not a little to favour Oratory ; and when we consider that 
of all the polite nations, it alone possesses a popular government, 
or admits into the legislature such numerous assemblies as can be 
supposed to lie under the dominion of Eloquence.* Notwith- 
standing this advantage, it must be confessed, that in most parts 
of Eloquence, we are undoubtedly inferior, not only to the 
Greeks and Romans, by many degrees, but also in some respects 
to the French. We have Philosophers, eminent and conspicu- 
ous, perhaps, beyond any nation, in every branch of science. 
We have both taste and erudition in a high degree. We have 
Historians, we have Poets of the greatest name ; but of Orators, 
or public Speakers, how little have we to boast ? And where 
are the mouuments of their genius to be found ? In every period 



* Mr. Hume, in his Essay on Eloquence, make3 this observation, and illustrates it 
with his usual elegance. He indeed, supposes, that no satisfactory reasons can be given 
to account for the inferiority of modern to ancient Eloquence. In this, I differ from 
him, and shall endeavour, before the conclusion of this Lecture, to point out some 
rauses, to which, I think, it may, in a great measure, be ascribed in the three great 
scenes of Public Speaking. 



LECT. XXVI.'] MODEKX ELOQUENCE. 295 

we have had some who made a figure, by managing the debates 
in Parliament; but that figure was commonly owing to their 
wisdom, or their experience in business, more than to their talents 
for Oratory; and unless, in some few instances, wherein the 
power of Oratory has appeared, indeed, with much lustre, the 
art of Parliamentary Speaking rather obtained to several a tem- 
porary applause, than conferred upon any a lasting renown. At 
the bar, though, questionless, we have many able pleaders, yet 
few or none of their pleadings have been thought worthy to be 
transmitted to posterity; or have commanded attention, any 
longer than the cause which was the subject of them, interested 
the public ; while, in France, the pleadings of Patru, in the 
former age, and those of Cochin and D'Aguesseau, in later 
times, are read with pleasure, and are often quoted as exam- ' 
pies of Eloquence by the French critics. In the same man- 
ner, in the pulpit, the British divines have distinguished 
themselves by the most accurate and rational compositions, 
which, perhaps, any nation can boast of, Many printed ser- 
mons we have, full of good sense, and of sound divinity ancl^ 
morality ; but the eloquence to be found in them, the power of 
persuasion, of interesting and engaging the heart, which is, or 
ought to be, the great object of the pulpit, is far from bearing a 
suitable proportion to the excellence of the matter. There are 
few arts in my opinion, farther from perfection, than that of 
preaching is among us ; the reasons of which, I shall afterwards 
have occasion to discuss; in proof of the fact, it is sufficient to 
observe, that an English sermon, instead of being a persuasive 
animated Oration, seldom rises beyond the strain of correct and 
dry reasoning. Whereas, in the sermons of Bossuet, Massillon, 
Bourdaloue, and Flechier, among the French, we see a much 
higher species of Eloquence aimed at, and in a great measure 
attained, than the British preachers have in view. 

In general, the characteristical difference between the state of 
Eloquence in France and in Great Britain is, that the French 
have adopted higher ideas both of pleasing and persuading by 
means of Oratory, though sometimes, in the execution, they fail. 
In Great Britain we have taken up Eloquence on a lower key ; 
but in our execution, as was naturally to be expected, have been 
more correct. In France, the style of their Orators is ornamented 
with bolder figures ; and their discourse carried on with more 
amplification, more warmth and elevation. The composition is 
often very beautiful; but sometimes, also, too diffuse, and defi- 
cient in that strength and cogency which renders Eloquence 
powerful : a defect owing, perhaps, in part, to the genius of the 
people, which leads them to attend fully as much to ornament as 
to substance ; and, in part, to the nature of their government, 
which, by excluding Public Speaking from having much influence 
on the conduct of public affairs, deprives Eloquence of its best 
opportunity for acquiring nerves and strength. Hence the pulpit 






296 MODERN ELOQUENCE. [LECT. XXVI. 

is the principal field which is left for their Eloquence. The 
members, too, of the French Academy, give harangues at their 
admission, in which genius often appears ; but labouring under 
the misfortune of having no subject to discourse upon, they run 
commonly into flattery and panegyric, the most barren and in- 
sipid of all topics. 

I observed before, that the Greeks and Romans aspired to a 
more sublime species of Eloquence, than is aimed at by the 
Moderns. Theirs was of the vehement and passionate kind, by 
which they endeavoured to inflame the minds of their hearers, and 
hurry their imaginations away : and, suitable to this vehemence 
of thought, was their vehemence of gesture and action ; the 
" supplosio pedis," the " percussio frontis et femoris," # were, as 
we learn from Cicero's writings, usual gestures among them at 
the bar; though now they would be reckoned extravagant any 
where, except upon the stage. Modern Eloquence is much 
more cool and temperate ; and in Great Britain especially, has 
confined itself almost wholly to the argumentative and rational. 
It is much of that species which the ancient critics called the 
" Tenuis " or Subtilis ; " which aims at convincing and instruct- 
ing, rather than affecting the passions, and assumes a tone not 
much higher than common argument and discourse. 

Several reasons may be given why Modern Eloquence has 
been so limited and humble in its efforts. In the first place, I 
am of opinion, that this change must, in part, be ascribed to that 
correct turn of thinking, which has been so much studied in 
modern times. It can hardly be doubted, that, in many efforts 
of mere genius, the ancient Greeks and Romans excelled us ; 
but, on the other hand, that, in accuracy and closeness of reason- 
ing on many subjects, we have some advantage over them, ought, 
I think, to be admitted also. In proportion as the world has 
advanced, philosophy has made greater progress. A certain 
strictness of good sense has, in this island particularly, been cul- 
tivated, and introduced into every subject. Hence we are more 
on our guard against the flowers of Elocution ; we are on the 
watch; we are jealous of being deceived by Oratory. Our 
public Speakers are obliged to be more reserved than the An- 
cients, in their attempts to elevate the imagination, and warm 
the passions ; and, by the influence of prevailing taste, their own 
genius is sobered and chastened, perhaps in too great a degree. 
It is likely too, I confess, that what we fondly ascribe to our 
correctness and good sense, is owing in a great measure, to our 
phleghm and natural coldness. For the vivacity and sensibility 
of the Greeks and Romans, more especially of the former, seem 
to have been much greater than ours, and to have given them a 
higher relish of all the beauties of Oratory. 

Besides these national considerations, we must, in the next 

* Vide De Clar. Orator. 



LECT. XXVI.] MODEEN ELOQUENCE. 297 

place, attend to peculiar circumstances in the three great scenes 
of Public Speaking, which have proved disadvantageous to the 
growth of Eloquence among us. Though the Parliament of 
Great Britain be the noblest field which Europe, at this day, 
affords to a public Speaker, yet Eloquence has never been so 
powerful an instrument there, as it was in the popular assemblies 
of Greece and Pome. tJnder some former reigns, the high hand 
of arbitrary power bore a violent sway : ; and in latter times 
ministerial influence has generally prevailed. The power of 
Speaking, though always considerable, yet has been often found 
too feeble to counterbalance either of these; and, of course, has 
not been studied with so much zeal and fervour, as where its 
effect on business was irresistible and certain. 

At the Bar, our disadvantage, in comparison of the Ancients, 
is great. Among them, the judges were generally numerous; 
the laws were few and simple ; the decision of causes was left, 
in a great measure, to equity and the sense of mankind. Here 
was an ample field for what they termed Judicial Eoquence. 
But among the moderns, the case is quite altered. The system 
of law is become much more complicated. The know ledge of it 
is thereby rendered so laborious an attainment, as to be the chief 
object of a lawyer's education, and in a manner, the study of his 
life. The art of Speaking is but a secondary accomplishment, 
to which he can afford to devote much less of his time and 
labour. The bounds of Eloquence, besides, are now much 
circumscribed at the Bar ; and, except in a few cases, reduced 
to arguing from strict law, statute, or precedent ; by which 
means, knowledge, much more than Oratory, is become the 
principal requisite. 

With regard to the pulpit, it has certainly been a great dis- 
advantage, that the practice of reading Sermons, instead of 
repeating them from memory, has prevailed in England. This 
may, indeed, have introduced accuracy ; but it has done great 
prejudice to Eloquence : for a Discourse read, is far inferior to 
an Oration spoken. It leads to a different sort of composition, 
as well as of delivery; and can never have an equal effect upon 
any audience. Another circumstance, too, has been unfortunate, 
The sectaries and fanatics, before the Pestoration, adopted a 
warm, zealous, and popular manner of preaching ; and those who 
adhered to them in after-times, continued to distinguish them- 
selves by somewhat of the same manner. The odium of these 
sects drove the established church from that warmth which they 
were judged to have carried too far, into the opposite extreme of 
a studied coolness and composure of manner. Hence, from the 
art of persuasion, which preaching ought always to be, it has 
passed in England into mere reasoning and instruction ; which 
not only has brought down the Eloquence of the Pulpit to a 
lower tone than it might justly assume ; but has produced this 
farther effect, that by accustoming the Public ear to such cool 

Y 






298 ELOQUENCE OF [LECT. XXVII. 

and dispassionate Discourses, it has tended to fashion other kinds 
of Public Speaking upon the same model. 

Thus I have given some view of the state of Eloquence in 
modern times, and endeavoured to account for it. It has, as 
we have seen, fallen below that splendour which it maintained 
in ancient ages; and, from being sublime and vehement, has 
come down to be temperate and cool. Yet, still, in that region 
which it occupies, it admits great scope ; and, to the defect of 
zeal and application, more than to the want of capacity and 
genius, we may ascribe its not having hitherto attained higher 
distinction. It is a field where there is much honour yet to 
be reaped. It is an instrument which may be employed for 
purposes of the highest importance. The ancient models may 
still, with much advantage, be set before us for imitation ; 
though, in that imitation, we must, doubtless, have some regard 
to what modern taste and modern manners will bear ; of which 
I shall afterwards have occasion to say more. 



LECTURE XXVIt. 



DIFFERENT KINDS OF PUBLIC SPEAKING — ELOQUENCE OF 
POPULAR ASSEMBLIES — EXTRACTS FROM DEMOSTHENES. 

After the preliminary views which have been given of the 
nature of Eloquence in general, and of the state in which it 
has subsisted in different ages and countries, I am now to enter 
on the consideration of the different kinds of Public Speaking, 
the distinguishing characters of each, and the rules which relate 
to them. The ancients divided all orations into three kinds : 
the Demonstrative, the Deliberative, and the Judicial. The 
scope of the demonstrative was to praise or to blame ; that of the 
deliberative, to advise or to dissuade ; that of the judicial, to 
accuse or to defend. The chief subjects of Demonstrative Elo- 
quence were panegyrics, invectives, gratulatory and funeral 
orations. The Deliberative was employed in matters of public 
concern agitated in the senate, or before the assemblies of the 
people. The Judicial is the same with the eloquence of the 
bar, employed in addressing judges, who have power to absolve 
or to condemn. This division runs through all the ancient 
treatises on rhetoric ; and is followed by the moderns who copy 
them. It is a division not inartificial ; and comprehends most, 
or all of the matters which can be the subject of public dis- 
course. It will, however, suit our purpose better, and be found, 
I imagine, more useful, to follow that division, which the train 



LECT. XXVII.] POPULAR ASSEMBLIES. 299 

of modern speaking naturally points out to us, taking from 
the three great scenes of eloquence, popular assemblies, the bar, 
and the pulpit ; each of which has a distinct character, that par- 
ticularly suits it. This division coincides in part with the 
ancient one. The Eloquence of the Bar is precisely the same 
with what the ancients called the Judicial. The Eloquence of 
Popular Assemblies, though mostly of what they term the 
Deliberative species, yet admits also of the Demonstrative. 
The Eloquence of the Pulpit is altogether of a distinct nature, 
and cannot be properly reduced under any of the heads of the 
ancient rhetoricians. 

To all the three, Pulpit, Bar, and Popular Assemblies, be- 
long, in common, the rules, concerning the conduct of a dis- 
course in all its parts. Of these rules, I purpose afterwards 
to treat at large. But before proceeding to them, I intend 
to show, first, what is peculiar to each of these three kinds of 
Oratory, in their spirit, character, or manner. For every species 
of public speaking has a manner or character peculiarly suited to 
it ; of which it is highly material to have a just idea, in order to 
direct the application of general rules. The eloquence of a 
lawyer is fundamentally different from that of a divine, or a 
speaker in parliament : and to have a precise and proper idea 
of the distinguishing character which any kind of public speak- 
ing requires, is the foundation of what is called a just taste 
in that kind of speaking. 

Laying aside any question concerning the pre-eminence in 
point of rank, which is due to any one of the three kinds before 
mentioned, I shall begin with that which tends to throw most 
light upon the rest, viz. the Eloquence of Popular Assemblies. 
The most august theatre for this kind of eloquence to be found 
in any nation of Europe, is, beyond doubt, the parliament of 
Great Britain. In meetings, too, of less dignity, it may display 
itself. Wherever there is a popular court, or wherever any 
number of men are assembled for debate or consultation, there, 
in different forms, this species of eloquence may take place. 

Its object is, or ought always to be, Persuasion. There must 
be some end proposed ; some point, most commonly of public 
utility or good, in favour of which we seek to determine the 
hearers. Now, in all attempts to persuade men, we must 
proceed upon this principle, that it is necessary to convince their 
understanding. Nothing can be more erroneous, than to ima- 
gine, that, because speeches to popular assemblies admit more of 
a declamatory style than some other discourses, they therefore 
stand less in need of being supported by sound reasoning. When 
modelled upon this false idea, they may have the show, but 
never can produce the effect, of real Eloquence. Even the show 
of Eloquence which they make, will please only the trifling and 
superficial. For, with all tolerable judges, indeed almost with 
all men, mere declamation soon becomes insipid. Of whatever 

y2 



300 ELOQUENCE OF [LECT. XXVII. 

rank the hearers be, a speaker is never to presume, that by 
a frothy and ostentatious harangue, without solid sense and 
argument, he can either make impression on them, or acquire 
fame himself. It is, at least, a dangerous experiment; for, 
where such an artifice succeeds once, it will fail ten times. 
Even the common people are better judges of argument and 
good sense than we sometimes think them ; and upon any 
question of business, a plain man, who speaks to the point, with- 
out art, will generally prevail over the most artful speaker who 
deals in flowers and ornament, rather than in reasoning. Much 
more, when public speakers address themselves to any assembly 
where there are persons of education and improved understand- 
ing, they ought to be careful not to trifle with their hearers. 

Let it be ever kept in view, that the foundation of all that 
can be called Eloquence, is good sense, and solid thought. As 
popular as the orations of Demosthenes were, spoken to all the 
citizens of Athens, every one who looks into them must see 
how fraught they are with argument; and how important it 
appeared to him to convince the understanding, in order to 
persuade, or to work on the principles of action. Hence 
their influence in his own time; hence their fame at this 
day. Such a pattern as this, public speakers ought to set 
before them for imitation, rather than follow the track of those 
loose and frothy declaimers, who have brought discredit on 
Eloquence. Let it be their first study, in addressing any po- 
pular assembly, to be previously masters of the business on 
which they are to speak ; to be well provided with matter 
and argument, and to rest upon these the chief stress. This 
will always give to their discourse an air of manliness and 
strength, which is a powerful instrument of persuasion. Orna- 
ment, if they have genius for it, will follow of course; at 
any rate it demands only their secondary study : Cura sit verborum 
solicitudo rerum : — " To your expression be attentive, but about 
your matter be solicitous," is an advice of Quinctilian, which 
cannot be too often recollected by all who study oratory. 

In the next place, in order to be persuasive Speakers in a 
Popular Assembly, it is in my opinion, a capital rule, that we 
be ourselves persuaded of whatever we recommend to others. 
Never, when it can be avoided, ought we to espouse any side 
of the argument, but what we believe to be the true and 
the right one. Seldom or never will a man be eloquent, but 
when he is in earnest, and uttering his own sentiments. They 
are only the " verae voces ab imo pectore," the unassumed lan- 
guage of the heart or head, that carry the force of conviction. 
In a former Lecture, when entering on this subject, I observed, 
that all high Eloquence must be the offspring of passion, or 
warm emotion. It is this which makes every man persuasive ; 
and gives a force to his genius, which it possesses at no other 
time. Under what disadvantage then is he placed, who, not 



LECT. XXVII.] POPULAR ASSEMBLIES. 301 

feeling what he utters, must counterfeit a warmth to which 
he is a stranger ? 

I know, that young people, on purpose to train themselves 
to the Art of Speaking, imagine it useful to adopt that side 
of the question under debate, which, to themselves, appears the 
weakest, and to try what figure they can make upon it. But, 
I am afraid, t this is not the most improving education for public 
speaking ; and that it tends to form them to a habit of flimsy 
and trivial discourse.. Such a liberty they should, at no time, 
allow themselves, unless in meetings where no real business 
is carried on, but where declamation and improvement in speech 
is the sole aim. Nor even in such meetings would I recommend 
it as the most useful exercise. They will improve themselves to 
more advantage, and acquit themselves with more honour, by 
choosing always that side of the debate to which, in their own 
judgment, they are most inclined, and supporting it by what 
seems to themselves most solid and persuasive. They will 
acquire the habit of reasoning closely, and expressing themselves 
with warmth and force, much more when they are adhering 
to their own sentiments, than when they are speaking in contra- 
diction to them. In assemblies where any real business is 
carried on, whether that business be of much importance or not, 
it is always of dangerous consequence for young practitioners to 
make trial of this sort of play of speech. It may fix an imputa- 
tion on their characters before they are aware ; and what they 
intended merely as amusement, may be turned to the discredit 
either of their principles or their understanding. 

Debate, in Popular Courts, seldom allows the Speaker that 
full and accurate- preparation beforehand, which the Pulpit 
always and the Bar sometimes, admits. The arguments must be 
suited to the course which the debate takes; and as no man 
can exactly foresee this, one who trusts to a set speech, com- 
posed in his closet, will, on many occasions, be thrown out of 
the ground which he had taken. He will find it pre-occupied 
by others, or his reasonings superseded by some new turn of the 
business ; and, if he ventures to use his prepared speech, it will 
be frequently at the hazard of making an awkward figure. 
There is a general prejudice with us, and not wholly an unjust 
one, against set speeches in public meetings. The only occasion, 
when they have any propriety, is, at the opening of a debate, 
when the speaker has it in his power to choose his field. But 
as the debate advances^ and parties warm, discourses of this kind 
become more unsuitable-. They want the native air, the appear- 
ance of being suggested by the business that is going on ; study 
and ostentation are apt to be visible ; and, of course, though 
applauded as elegant, they are seldom so persuasive as more free 
and unconstrained discourses. 

This, however, does not by any means conclude against pre- 
meditation of what we are to say ; the neglect of which, and the 



302 ELOQUENCE OF" [LECT. XXVII. 

trusting wholly to extemporaneous efforts, will unavoidably pro- 
duce the habit of speaking in a loose and undigested manner. 
But the premeditation which is of most advantage, in the case 
which we now consider, is of the subject or argument in general, 
rather than of nice composition in any particular branch of 
it. With regard to the matter, we cannot be too accurate in 
our preparation, so as to be fully masters of the business under 
consideration; but, with regard to words and expression, it 
is very possible so far to overdo, as to render our speech stiff and 
precise. Indeed, till once persons acquire that firmness, that 
presence of mind, and command of expression, in a public meet- 
ting, which nothing but habit and practice can bestow, it may 
be proper for a young speaker to commit to memory the whole of 
what he is to say. But, after some performances of this kind 
have given him boldness, he will find it the better method not to 
confine himself so strictly, but only to write, beforehand, some 
sentences with which he intends to set out, in order to put 
himself fairly in the train ; and for the rest, to set down short 
notes of the topics, or principal thoughts upon which he is to in- 
sist, in their order, leaving the words to be suggested by the 
warmth of discourse. Such short notes of the substance of the 
discourse will be found of considerable service to those especially 
who are beginning to speak in public. They will accustom them 
to some degree of accuracy, which, if they speak frequently, 
they are in danger too soon of losing. They will even accus- 
tom them to think more closely on the subject in question ; 
and will assist them greatly in arranging their thoughts with 
method and order. 

This leads me next to observe, that in all kinds of public 
speaking nothing is of greater consequence than a proper and 
clear method. I mean not that formal method of laying down 
heads and subdivisions, which is commonly practised in the 
Pulpit ; and which, in Popular Assemblies, unless the speaker 
be a man of great authority and character, and the subject of 
great importance, and the preparation, too, very accurate, is 
rather in hazard of disgusting the hearers : such an introduc- 
tion presenting always the melancholy prospect of a long dis- 
course. But though the method be not laid down in form, no 
discourse of any length should be without method ; that is, 
every thing should be found in its proper place. Every one 
who speaks w T ill find it of the greatest advantage to himself to 
have previously arranged his thoughts, and classed under pro- 
per heads, in his own mind, what he is to deliver. This will 
assist his memory, and carry him through his discourse, with- 
out that confusion to which one is every moment subject, who 
has fixed no distinct plan of what he is to say. And with 
respect to the hearers, order in discourse is absolutely neces- 
sary for making any proper impression. It adds both force and 
light to what is said. It makes them accompany the speaker 



LECT. XXVII.] POPULAR ASSEMBLIES. 303 

easily and readily, as he goes along ; and makes them feel the 
full effect of every argument which he employs. Few things 
therefore, deserve more to be attended to than distinct ar- -^ 
rangement : for Eloquence, however great, can never produce 
entire conviction without it. Of the rules of method, and the 
proper distribution of the several parts of a discourse, I am here- 
after to treat. 

Let us now consider the Style and Expression suited to the 
Eloquence of popular Assemblies. Beyond doubt, these give 
scope for the most animated manner of Public Speaking. The 
very aspect of a large assembly, engaged in some debate of 
moment, and attentive to the discourse of one man, is sufficient 
to inspire that man with such elevation and warmth, as both 
gives rise to strong impressions, and gives them propriety. 
Passion easily rises in a great assembly, where the movements 
are communicated by mutual sympathy between the Orator 
and the Audience. Those bold figures, of which I treated for- 
merly as the native language of passion, have then their proper 
place. That ardour of Speech, that vehemence and glow of 
Sentiment, which arise from a mind animated and inspired by 
some great and public object, form the peculiar characteristics of 
Popular Eloquence, in its highest degree of perfection. 

The liberty, however, which we are now giving of the strong 
and passionate manner to this kind of Oratory, must be always 
understood with certain limitations and restraints, which it will 
be necessary to point out distinctly, in order to guard against 
dangerous mistakes on this subject. 

As first, The warmth which we express must be suited to the 
occasion and the subject ; for nothing can be more preposterous, 
than an attempt to introduce great vehemence into a subject, 
which is either of slight importance, or which, by its nature, 
requires to be treated of calmly. A temperate tone of Speech 
is that for which there is most frequent occasion ; and he who is, 
on every subject, passionate and vehement, will be considered as 
a blusterer, and meet with little regard. 

In the second place, We must take care never to counterfeit 
warmth without feeling it. This always betrays persons into an 
unnatural manner, which exposes them to ridicule. For, as I 
have often suggested, to support the appearance without the real 
feeling of passion, is one of the most difficult things in nature. 
The disguise can almost never be so perfect as not to be dis- 
covered. The heart can only answer to the heart. The great 
rule here, as indeed in every other case, is to follow nature : 
never to attempt a strain of Eloquence which is not seconded by 
our own genius. One may be a Speaker, both of much reputa- 
tion and much influence, in the calm argumentative manner. To 
attain the pathetic, and the sublime of Oratory, requires those 
strong sensibilities of mind, and that high power of expression, 
which are given to few. 






304 ELOQUENCE OF [LECT. XXVII. 

In the third place, Even when the subject justifies the vehe- 
ment manner, and when genius prompts it ; when warmth is 
felt, not counterfeited ; we must still set a guard on ourselves, 
not to allow impetuosity to transport us too far. Without emo- 
tion in the Speaker, Eloquence, as was before observed, will 
never produce its highest effects ; but, at the same time, if the 
Speaker lose command of himself, he will soon lose command 
of his audience too. He must never kindle too soon : he must 
begin with moderation ; and study to carry his hearers along 
with him, as he warms in the progress of his discourse. For, if 
he runs. before in the course of passion, and leaves them behind; 
if they are not tuned, if we may speak so, in unison to him, the 
discord will presently be felt, and be very grating. Let a Speaker 
have ever so good reason to be animated and fired by his subject, 
it is always expected of him, that the awe and regard due to his 
audience should lay a decent restraint upon his warmth, and 
prevent it from carrying him beyond certain bounds. If, when 
most heated by the subject, he can be so far master of himself as 
to preserve close attention to argument, and even to some degree 
of correct expression, this self-command, this exertion of reason, 
in the midst of passion, has a wonderful effect both to please and 
to persuade. It is indeed the master-piece, the highest attain- 
ment of Eloquence; uniting the strength of reason with the 
vehemence of passion ; affording all the advantages of passion i'oz 
the purpose of persuasion, without the confusion and disorder 
which are apt to accompany it. 

In the fourth place, In the highest and most animated strain, 
of Popular Speaking, we must always preserve regard to what 
the public ear will bear. This direction I give, in order to guard 
against an injudicious imitation of ancient Orators, who, both in 
their pronunciation and gesture, and in their figures of expres- 
sion, used a bolder manner than what the greater coolness of 
modern taste will readily suffer. This may, perhaps, as I for- 
merly observed, be a disadvantage to Modern Eloquence. It is 
no reason why we should be too severe in checking the impulse 
of genius, and continue always creeping on, the ground ; but it is 
a reason, however, why we should avoid carrying the tone of 
declamation to a height that would now be reckoned extravagant. 
Demosthenes, to justify the unsuccessful action of Cheronaea, 
calls up the manes of those heroes who fell in the battles of 
Marathon and Platse, and swears by them, that their fellow- 
citizens had done well in their endeavours to support the same 
cause. Cicero, in his Oration for Milo, implores and obtests the 
Alban hills and groves, and makes a long address to them : and 
both passages, in these Orators, have a fine effect.* But how 

* The passage in Cicero is very beautiful, and adorned with the highest colouring of 
his Eloquence. " Non est humano consilio, ne mediocri quidem, Judices, deorura 
immortalium cura, res ilia perfecta. Religiones, mehercule, ipsse araeque cum illam 
belluara. cadere viderunt, commovisse se videntur, et jus in illo suum retinuisse. Vos 
on,im jam Albani tumuli, atque luci vos inquam imploro atque obtestor, vosque Alba-- 



LECT. XXVII.] POPULAR ASSEMBLIES. 305 

few modern Orators could venture on such apostrophes? and 
what a power of genius would it require to give such figures now 
their proper grace, or make them produce a due effect upon the 
hearers? 

In the fifth and last place, In all kinds of Public Speaking, 
but especially in Popular Assemblies, it is a capital rule to attend 
to all the decorums of time, place, and character. No warmth of 
Eloquence can atone for the neglect of these. That vehemence, 
which is becoming in a person of character and authority, may 
be unsuitable to the modesty expected from a. young Speaker. 
That sportive and witty manner which may suit one subject and 
one assembly, is altogether out of place in a grave cause and a 
solemn meeting. " Caput artis est," says Quintilian, " decere : " 
— "The first principle of art^ is, to observe decorum." No one 
should ever rise to speak in public, without forming to himself a 
just and strict idea of what suits his own age and character ; what 
suits the subject, the hearers, the place, the occasion ; and ad- 
justing the whole train and manner of his speaking on this idea. 
All the ancients insist much on this. Consult the first chapter 
of the eleventh book of Quinctilian, which is employed wholly 
on this point, and is full of good sense. Cicero's admonitions in 
his Orator ad Brutum, I shall give in his own words, which 
should never be forgotten by any who speak in public. " Est 
Eloquentias, sicut reliquarum rerum, fundamentum, sapientia ; ut 
enim in vita, sic in oratione nihil est difficilius quam quod deceat 
videre; hujus ign oratione ssepissime peccatur; non enim omnis 
fortuna, non omnis auctoritas, non omnis aetas, nee vero locus, 
aut tempus, aut auditor omnis, eodem aut verborum genere trac- 
tandus est, aut sententiarum. Semperque in omni parte ora- 
tionis, ut vitae, quid deceat considerandum ; quod et in re de qua 
agitur positum est, et in personis et eorum qui dicunt, et eorum 
qui audiunt." * So much for the considerations that require to be 
attended to, with respect to the vehemence and warmth which is 
allowed in Popular Eloquence. 

The current of Style should, in general,, be full, free, and 



nprum obrutae ara?, sacrorum populi Romani sociaa et equales-, quas ille praeceps amentia, 
caesis prostratisque, sanctissimis lucis, substructionum insanis molibus oppresserat ; 
vestrae turn arae, vestrae religiones viguerunt, vestra vis valuit, quam ille omni scelere 
polluerat. Tuque ex tuo edito monte Latiali, sancte Jupiter, cujus ille lacus, nemora, 
finesque, saepe omni nefario stupro, scelere macularat, aliquando ad eum puniendum, 
oculos aperuisti ; vobis illae, vobis vestro in conspectu, serae, sed justae tamen, et debit 33 
poenae solutae sunt." 

* "Good sense is- the foundation of Eloquence, as it is of all other things that are 
valuable. It happens in Oratory exactly as it does in life, that frequently nothing is I 
more difficult than to discern what is proper and becoming. In consequence of mis- I 
taking this, the grossest faults are often committed. For to the different degrees of 
rank, fortune, and age among men, to all the varieties of time, place, and auditory, the 
same Style of Language, and the same strain of thought cannot agree. In every part of 
a discourse, just as in every part of life, we must attend to what is suitable and decent ; 
whether that be determined by the nature of the subject of which we treat, or by the 
characters of those who-speak, or of those who hear." 



306 ELOQUENCE OF [LECT. XXVII. 

natural. Quaint and artificial expressions are out of place here ; 
and always derogate from persuasion. It is a strong and manly 
style which should chiefly be studied ; and metaphorical Lan- 
guage, when properly introduced, produces often a happy effect. 
When the metaphors are warm, glowing, and descriptive, some 
inaccuracy in them will be overlooked, which, in a written com- 
position, would be remarked and censured. Amidst the torrent 
of declamation, the strength of the figure makes impression ; the 
inaccuracy of it escapes. 

With regard to the degree of conciseness or diffuseness, suited 
to Popular Eloquence, it is not easy to fix any exact bounds. I 
know that it is common to recommend a diffuse manner as the 
most proper. I am inclined, however, to think, that there is 
danger of erring in this respect ; and that by indulging too much 
in the diffused Style, Public Speakers often lose more in point 
of Strength, than they gain by the fulness of their illustration. 
There is no doubt, that in speaking to a multitude, we must not 
speak in sentences and apophthegms : care must be taken to 
explain and to inculcate ; but this care may be, and frequently 
is, carried too far. We ought always to remember, that how 
much soever we may be pleased with hearing ourselves speak, 
every audience is very ready to be tired ; and the moment they 
begin to be tired, all our Eloquence goes for nothing. A loose 
and verbose manner never fails to create disgust ; and, on most 
occasions, we had better run the risk of saying too little than too 
much. Better place our thought in one strong point of view, 
and rest it there, than by turning it into every light, and pouring 
forth a profusion of words upon it, exhaust the attention of our 
hearers, and leave them flat and languid. 

Of Pronunciation and Delivery, I am hereafter to treat 
apart. At present it is sufficient to observe, that in speaking 
to mixed assemblies, the best manner of delivery is the firm 
and the determined. An arrogant and overbearing manner 
is indeed always disagreeable ; and the least appearance of it 
ought to be shunned: but there is a certain decisive tone, 
which may be assumed even by a modest man, who is thoroughly 
persuaded of the sentiments he utters; and which is best 
calculated for making a general impression. A feeble and 
hesitating manner bespeaks always some distrust of a man's 
own opinion ; which is by no means, a favourable circumstance 
for his inducing others to embrace it. 

These are the chief thoughts which have occurred to me 
from reflection and observation, concerning the peculiar dis- 
tinguishing characters of the Eloquence proper for Popular 
Assemblies. The sum of what has been said, is this : The end 
of Popular Speaking is persuasion ; and this must be founded 
on conviction. Argument and reasoning must be the basis, 
if we would be speakers of business, and not mere declaimers. 
We should be engaged in earnest on the side which we espouse; 



LECT. XXVII.] POPULAR ASSEMBLIES. 307 

and utter, as much as possible, our own, and not counterfeited 
sentiments. The premeditation should be of things, rather than \ 
of words. Clear order and method should be studied; the 
manner and expression warm and animated ; though still, in the 
midst of that vehemence, which may at times be suitable, carried 
on under the proper restraints which regard to the audience, and 
to the decorum of character, ought to lay on every Public 
Speaker; the style free and easy ; strong and descriptive, rather 
than diffuse ; and the delivery determined and firm. To conclude 
this head, let every Orator remember, that the impression made 
by fine and artful speaking is momentary ; that made by argu- 
ment and good sense, is solid and lasting. 

I shall now, that I may afford an exemplification of that 
species of oratory of which I have been treating, insert some 
extracts from Demosthenes. Even under the great disadvan- 
tage of an English translation, they will exhibit a small specimen 
of that vigorous and spirited eloquence which I have so often 
praised. I shall take my extracts mostly from the Philippics 
and Olynthiacs, which were entirely popular orations spoken 
to the general convention of the citizens of Athens: and, as 
the subject of both the Philippics and the Olynthiacs is the 
same, I shall not confine myself to one oration, but shall join 
together passages taken from two or three of them : such as 
may show his general strain of speaking, on some of the chief 
branches of the subject. The subject in general is, to rouse the 
Athenians to guard against Philip of Macedon, whose growing 
power and crafty policy had by that time endangered, and soon 
after overwhelmed, the liberties of Greece. The Athenians 
began to be alarmed; but their deliberations were slow, and 
their measures feeble ; several of their favourite orators having 
been gained by Philip's bribes to favour his cause. In this criti- 
cal conjuncture of affairs Demosthenes arose. In the following^ 
manner he begins his first Philippic ; which, like the exordiums 
of all his orations, is simple and artless.* 

" Had we been convened, Athenians ! on some new subject 
of debate, I had waited till most of your usual counsellors 
had declared their opinions. If I had approved of what was 
proposed by them, I should have continued silent ; if not, I 
should then have attempted to speak my sentiments. But 
since those very points on which these speakers have oftentimes 
been heard already, are at this time to be considered; though 
I have arisen first, I presume I may expect your pardon ; for if 
they on former occasions had advised the proper measures, you 
would not have found it needful to consult at present. 

" First then, Athenians ! however wretched the situation 
of our affairs at present seems, it must not by any means 
be thought desperate. What I am now going to advance 

* In the following extracts, Leland's translation is mostly followed. 



308 EXTRACTS FROM [LECT. XXVII. 

may possibly appear a paradox ; yet it is a certain truth, that 
our past misfortunes afford a circumstance most favourable to 
our future hopes.* And what is that? even that our present 
difficulties are owing entirely to our total indolence and utter 
disregard of our own interest. For were we thus situated, 
in spite of every effort which our duty demanded, then indeed 
we might regard our fortunes as absolutely desperate. But 
now, Philip hath only conquered your supineness and inactivity ; 
the state he hath not conquered. You cannot be said to bo 
defeated ; your force hath never been exerted. 

" If there is a man in this assembly who thinks that we 
must find a formidable enemy in Philip, while he views on one 
hand the numerous armies which surround him, and on the 
other, the weakness of our state, despoiled of so much of its- 
dominions, I cannot deny that he thinks justly. Yet let him 
reflect on this ; there was a time, Athenians ! when we possessed 
Pydna, Potidoca, and Melthone, and all that country round ; 
when many of /( the states, now subjected to him, were free, and 
independent, and more inclined to our alliance than to his. If 
Philip, at that time weak in himself, and without allies, had 
desponded of success against you, he would never have engaged 
in those enterprises which are now crowned with success, nor 
could have raised himself to that pitch of grandeur at which you 
now behold him. But he knew well that the strongest places 
are only prizes laid between the combatants, and ready for the 
conqueror. He knew that the dominions of the absent devolve 
naturally to those who are in the field ; the possessions of the 
supine, to the active and intrepid. Animated by these sen- 
timents, he overturns whole nations. He either rules univer- 
sally as a conqueror, or governs as a protector. For mankind 
naturally seek confederacy with such, as they see resolved and 
preparing not to be wanting to themselves. 

" If you, my countrymen ! will now at length be persuaded 
to entertain the like sentiments ; if each of you will be disposed 
to approve himself an useful citizen, to the utmost that his 
station and abilities enable him ; if the rich will be ready 
to contribute, and the young to take the field ; in one word, if 
you will be yourselves, and banish these vain hopes which every 
single person entertains, that the active part of public business 
may lie upon others, and he remain at his ease ; you may then, 
by the assistance of the Gods, recall those opportunities which 
your supineness hath neglected, regain your dominions, and 
chastise the insolence of this man. 

" But when, O my countrymen ! will you begin to exert your 
vigour? Do you wait till roused by some dire event? till 



* This thought is only hinted in the first Philippic, but brought out more fully in 
the third ; as the same thoughts, occasioned by similar situations of affairs, sometimes 
occur in the different orations on this subject. 



LECT. XXVII.] 3DEM0STHENES. 309 

forced by some necessity ? What then are we to think of our 
present condition ? To free men, the disgrace attending on mis- 
conduct is, in my opinion, the most urgent necessity. Or say, 
is it your sole ambition to wander through the public places, 
each inquiring of the other, ' What new advices?' Can any 
thing be more new than that a man of Macedon should conquer 
the Athenians, and give law to Greece ? ' Is Philip dead ? ' — 
* No ; but he is sick.' Pray, what is it to you whether Philip is 
sick or not? Supposing he should die, you would raise up 
another Philip, if you continue thus regardless of your interest. 

" Many, I know, delight more in nothing than in circulating 
all the rumours they hear as articles of intelligence. Some cry, 
Philip hath joined with the Lacedaemonians, and they are 
concerting the destruction of Thebes. Others assure us, he 
hath sent an embassy to the king of Persia; others, that he 
is fortifying places in Illyria. Thus we all go about framing 
our several tales. I do believe, indeed, Athenians ! that he is 
intoxicated with his greatness, and does entertain his imagination 
with many such visionary projects, as he sees no power rising to 
oppose him. But I cannot be persuaded that he hath so taken 
his measures, that the weakest among us (for the weakest they 
are who spread such rumours) know what he is next to do. Let 
us disregard these tales. Let us only be persuaded of this, 
that he is our enemy ; that we have long been subject to his in- 
solence; that whatever we expected to have been done for 
us by others, hath turned against us ; that all the resource left, 
is in ourselves ; and that if we are not inclined to carry our 
arms abroad, we should be forced to engage him at home. Let 
us be persuaded of these things, and then we shall come to 
a proper determination, and be no longer guided by rumours. 
We need not be solicitous to know what particular events are to 
happen. We may be well assured that nothing good can 
happen, unless we give due attention to our own affairs, and act 
as becomes Athenians. 

(( Were it a point generally acknowledged, * that Philip is 
now at actual war with the state, the only thing under delibera- 
tion would then be, how to oppose him with most safety. But 
since there are persons so strangely infatuated, that although he 
has already possessed himself of a considerable part of our 
dominions ; although he is still extending his conquests ; al- 
though all Greece has suffered by his injustice; yet they 
ean hear it repeated in this assembly, that it is some of us 
who seek to embroil the state in war : this suggestion must first 
be guarded against. I readily admit, that were it in our power 
to determine whether we should be at peace or war, peace, if it 
depended on our option, is most desirable to be embraced. But 
if the other party hath drawn the sword, and gathered his 

* Phil. iii. 



310 EXTRACTS FROM [LECT. XXVII. 

armies round him ; if he amuses us with the name of peace, 
while, in fact, he is proceeding- to the greatest hostilities ; what 
is left for us but to oppose him ? If any man takes that for 
a peace, which is only a preparation for his leading his forces 
directly upon us, after his other conquests, I hold that man's 
mind to be disordered. At least, it is only our conduct towards 
Philip, not Philip's conduct towards us, that is to be termed 
a peace ; and this is the peace for which Philip's treasures are 
expended, for which his gold is so liberally scattered among our 
venal orators, that he may be at liberty to carry on the war 
against you, while you make no war on him. 

" Heavens ! is there any man of right mind ivho would judge 
of peace or war by words, and not by actions ? Is there any man 
so weak as to imagine that it is for the sake of those paltry 
villages of Thrace, Drongylus, and Cabyle, and Mastira, that 
Philip is now braving the utmost dangers, and enduring the 
severity of toils and seasons ; and that he has no designs upon 
the arsenals, and the navies, and the silver mines of Athens ? or 
that he will take up his winter quarters among the cells and 
dungeons of Thrace, and leave you to enjoy all your revenues in 
peace ? But you wait perhaps till he declare war against you. 
— He will never do so — no, though he were at your gates. He 
will still be assuring you that he is not at war. Such were his 
professions to the people of Oreum, when his forces were in the 
heart of their country ; such his professions to those of Pherae, 
until the moment he attacked their walls; and thus he amused 
the Olynthians till he came within a few miles of them, and 
then he sent them a message, that either they must quit their 
city, or he his kingdom. He would indeed be the absurdest of 
mankind, if, while you suffer his outrages to pass unnoticed, and 
are wholly engaged in accusing and prosecuting one another, he 
should, by declaring war, put an end to your private contests, 
warn you to direct all your zeal against him, and deprive his 
pensioners of their most specious pretence for suspending your 
resolutions, that of his not being at war with the state. I, for 
my part, hold and declare, that by his attack of the Megaraeans, 
by his attempts upon the liberty of Euboea, by his late incur- 
sions into Thrace, by his practices in Peloponnesus, Philip has 
violated the treaty ; he is in a state of hostility with you ; unless 
you shall affirm, that he who prepares to besiege a city, is 
still at peace, until the walls be actually invested. The man 
whose designs, whose whole conduct tends to reduce me to 
subjection, that man is at war with me, though not a blow 
hath yet been given, nor a sword drawn. 

." All Greece, all the barbarian world, is too narrow for this 
man's ambition. And, though we Greeks see and hear all 
this, we send no embassies to each other ; we express no re- 
sentment; but into such wretchedness are we sunk, that even 
to this day we neglect what our interest and duty demand. 



LECT. XXVII.] DEMOSTHENES. 311 

Without engaging in associations, or forming confederacies, we 
look with unconcern upon Philip's growing power ; each fondly 
imagining, that the time in which another is destroyed, is so 
much time gained to him; although no man can be ignorant 
that, like the regular periodical return of a fever, he is coming 
upon those who think themselves the most remote from danger. 
— And what is the cause of our present passive disposition? 
For some cause sure there must be, why the Greeks, who have 
been so zealous heretofore in defence of liberty, are now so 
prone to slavery. The cause, Athenians ! is, that a principle, 
which was formerly fixed in the minds of all, now exists no 
more; a principle which conquered the opulence of Persia, 
maintained the freedom of Greece, and triumphed over the powers 
of sea and land, That principle was, an unanimous abhorrence 
of all those who accepted bribes from princes, that were enemies 
to the liberties of Greece. To be convicted of bribery, was 
then a crime altogether unpardonable. Neither Orators, nor 
Generals, would then sell for gold the favourable conjunctures 
which fortune put into their hands. ~No gold could impair our 
firm concord at home, our hatred and diffidence of tyrants and 
barbarians. But now all things are exposed to sale, as in a 
public market. Corruption has introduced such manners as 
have proved the bane and destruction of our country. Is a 
man known to have received foreign money? People envy 
him. Does he own it ? They laugh. Is he convicted in 
form? They forgive him: so universally has this contagion 
diffused itself among us. 

" If there be any who, though not carried away by bribes 
yet are struck with terror, as if Philip was something more 
than human, they may see, upon a little consideration, that 
he hath exhausted all those artifices to which he owes his 
present elevation; and that his affairs are now ready to decline. 
For I myself, Athenians ! should think Philip really to be 
dreaded, if I saw him raised by honourable means. — When 
forces join in harmony and affection, and one common interest 
unites confederating powers, then they share the toils with 
alacrity, and endure distresses with perseverance. But when 
extravagant ambition and lawless power, as in the case of Philip, 
have aggrandized a single person, the first pretence, the slightest 
accident, overthrows him, and dashes his greatness to the 
ground. For, it is not possible, Athenians! it is not possible, 
to found a lasting power upon injustice, perjury, and treachery. 
These may perhaps succeed for once, and borrow for a wmile, 
from hope, a gay and flourishing appearance. But time betrays 
their weakness, and they fall of themselves to ruin. For, as in 
structures of every kind, the lower parts should have the firmest 
stability, so the grounds and principles of great enterprises 
should be justice and truth. But this solid foundation is want- 
ing to all the enterprises of Philip. 



312 EXTRACTS FROM [LECT. XXVII. 

" Hence, among his confederates there are many who hate, 
who distrust, who envy him. If you will exert yourselves, as 
your honour and your interest require, you will not only discover 
the weakness and insincerity of his confederates, but the ruinous 
condition also of his own kingdom. For you are not to imagine, 
that the inclinations of his subjects are the same with those of 
their prince. He thirsts for glory; but they have no part in 
this ambition. Harassed by those various excursions he is ever 
making, they groan under perpetual calamity ; torn from their 
business and their families ; and beholding commerce excluded 
from their coasts. All those glaring exploits, which have given 
him his apparent greatness, have wasted his natural strength, his 
own kingdom, and rendered it much weaker than it originally 
was. Besides, his profligacy and baseness, and those troops of 
buffoons, and dissolute persons, whom he caresses and keeps 
constantly about him, are to men of just discernment, great indi- 
cations of the weakness of his mind. At present, his successes 
cast a shade over these things ; but let his arms meet with the 
least disgrace, his feebleness will appear, and his character be 
exposed. For, as in our bodies, while a man is in apparent 
health, the effect of some inward debility, which has been growing 
upon him, may, for a time, be concealed ; but, as soon as it 
comes the length of disease, all his secret infirmities show them- 
selves in whatever part of his frame the disorder is lodged: 
so, in states and monarchies, while they carry on a war abroad, 
many defects escape the general eye; but, as soon as war 
reaches their own territory, their infirmities come forth to gen- 
eral observation. 

" Fortune has great influence in all human affairs ; but I, for 
my part, should prefer the fortune of Athens, with the least 
degree of vigour in asserting your cause, to this man's fortune. 
For we have many better reasons to depend upon the favour of 
Heaven than this man. But, indeed, he who will not exert his 
own strength, hath no title to depend either on his friends, or on 
the Gods. Is it at all surprising that he, who is himself ever 
amidst the labours and dangers of the field : who is everywhere ; 
whom no opportunity escapes ; to whom no season is unfavour- 
able ; should be superior to you; who are wholly engaged in 
contriving delays, and framing decrees, and enquiring after 
news ? The contrary would be much more surprising, if we, 
who have never hitherto acted as became a state engaged in war, 
should conquer one who acts, in every instance, with indefati- 
gable vigilance. It is this, Athenians ! it is this which gives 
him all his advantage against you. Philip, constantly surrounded 
by his troops, and perpetually engaged in projecting his designs, 
can, in a moment, strike the blow where he pleases. But we, 
when any accident alarms us, first appoint our Trierarchs ; then 
we allow them to exchange by substitution : then the supplies 
are considered ; next, we resolve to man our fleet with strangers 



LECT. XXVII.] DEMOSTHENES. 313 

and foreigners ; then find it necessary to supply their place our- 
selves. In the midst of these delays, what we are failing to 
defend, the enemy is already master of; for the time of action 
is spent by us in preparing ; and the issues of war will not wait 
for our slow and irresolute measures. 

" Consider then your present situation, and make such provi- 
sion as the urgent danger requires. Talk not of your ten thou- 
sands, or your twenty thousand foreigners; of those armies 
which appear so magnificent on paper only ; great and terrible 
in your decrees, in execution weak and contemptible. But let 
your army be made up chiefly of the native forces of the state ; 
let it be an Athenian strength to which you are to trust ; and 
whomsoever you appoint as general, let them be entirely under 
his guidance and authority. For, ever since our armies have 
been formed of foreigners alone, their victories have been gained 
over our allies and confederates only, while our enemies have 
risen to an extravagance of power." 

The Orator goes on to point out the number of forces which 
should be raised ; the places of their destination ; the season of 
the year in which they should set out ; and then proposes in form 
his motion, as we would call it, or his decree, for the necessary 
supply of money, and for ascertaining the funds from which it 
should be raised. Having finished all that relates to the business 
under deliberation, he concludes these Orations on public affairs, 
commonly with no longer peroration than the following, which 
terminates the First Philippic : " I, for my part, have never, 
upon any occasion, chosen to court your favour, by speaking any 
thing but what I was convinced would serve you. And, on this 
occasion, you have heard my sentiments freely declared, without 
art, and without reserve. I should have been pleased, indeed, 
that, as it is for your advantage, to have your true interest laid 
before you, so I might have been assured, that he who layeth it 
before you would share the advantage. But, uncertain as I 
know the consequence to be with respect to myself, I yet 
determined to speak, because I was convinced that . these mea- 
sures, if pursued, must prove beneficial to the public. And, of 
all those opinions which shall be offered to your acceptance, may 
the Gods determine that to be chosen which will best advance 
the general welfare." 

These Extracts may serve to give some imperfect idea of the 
manner of Demosthenes. For a juster and more complete one, 
recourse must be had to the excellent original. 



314 ELOQUENCE [LECT. XXVIII. 



LECTURE XXVIII. 

ELOQUENCE OP THE BAR. — ANALYSIS OF CICERO'S ORATION 
EOR CLUENTIUS. 

I treated, in the last Lecture, of what is peculiar to the 
Eloquence of Popular Assemblies. Much of what was said on 
that head is applicable to the Eloquence of the Bar, the next 
great scene of Public Speaking to which I now proceed, and my 
observations upon which will therefore be the shorter. All, 
however, that was said in the former Lecture must not be applied 
to it ; and it is of importance, that I begin with showing where 
the distinction lies. 

In the first place, the ends of speaking at the Bar, and in 
Popular Assemblies, are commonly different. In Popular As- 
semblies, the great object is persuasion ; the Orator aims at 
determining the hearers to some choice or conduct, as good, fit, 
or useful. For accomplishing this end, it is incumbent on him to 
apply himself to all the principles of action in our nature ; to the 
passions and to the heart, as well as to the understanding. But, 
at the Bar, conviction is the great object. There, it is not the 
Speaker's business to persuade the Judges to what is good or 
useful, but to show them what is just and true ; and, of course, 
it is chiefly, or solely, to the understanding that his Eloquence 
is addressed. This is a characteristical difference which ought 
ever to be kept in view. 

In the next place, Speakers at the Bar address themselves to 
one, or to a few Judges, and these, too, persons generally of age, 
gravity, and authority of character. There they have not those 
advantages which a mixed and numerous Assembly affords for 
employing all the arts of Speech, even supposing their subject to 
admit them. Passion does not rise so easily ; the Speaker is 
heard more coolly ; he is watched over more severely ; and would 
expose himself to ridicule, by attempting that high vehement 
tone, which is only proper in speaking to a multitude. 

In the last place, the nature and management of the subjects 
which belong to the Bar, require a very different species of 
Oratory from that of Popular Assemblies. In the latter, the 
Speaker has a much wider range. He is seldom confined to any 
precise rule; he can fetch his topics from a great variety of 
quarters ; and employ every illustration which his fancy or 
imagination suggests. But, at the bar, the field of speaking is 
limited to precise law and statute. Imagination is not allowed 
to take its scope. The Advocate has always lying before him 
the line, the square, and the compass. These, it is his principal 
business to be continually applying to the subjects under debate. 



LECT. XXY1II. | OF THE BAR. 315 

For these reasons, it is clear, that the Eloquence of the Bar is 
of a much more limited, more sober and chastened kind, than 
that of Popular Assemblies ; and, for similar reasons, we must 
beware of considering even the judicial Orations of Cicero or 
Demosthenes as exact models of the manner of Speaking, which 
is adapted to the present state of the Bar. It is necessary to 
warn young Lawyers of this ; because, though these were plead- 
ings spoken in civil or criminal causes, yet, in fact, the nature of 
the Bar anciently, both in Greece and Borne, allowed a much 
nearer approach to Popular Eloquence, than what it now does. 
This was owing chiefly to two causes. 

First, Because in the ancient Judicial Orations, strict law was 
much less an object of attention that it is become among us. In 
the days of Demosthenes and Cicero, the municipal statutes were 
few, simple, and general ; and the decision of causes was trusted, 
in a great measure, to the equity and common sense of the Judges. 
Eloquence, much more than Jurisprudence, was the study of 
those who were to plead causes. Cicero somewhere says, that 
three months study was sufficient to make any man a complete 
Civilian; nay, it was thought that one might be a* good pleader 
at the Bar, who had never studied law at all. For there were 
among the Romans a set of men called Pragmatici, whose office 
it was to give the Orator all the law knowledge which the cause 
he was to plead required, and which he put into that popular 
form, and dressed up with those colours of Eloquence, that were 
best fitted for influencing the Judges before whom he spoke. 

VTe may observe next, that the Civil and Criminal Judges, 
both in Greece and Borne, were commonly much more numerous 
than they are with us, and formed a sort of Popular Assembly. 
The renowned tribunal of the Areopagus at Athens, consisted of 
fifty Judges at the least.* Some make it to consist of a great 
many more. When Socrates was condemned, by what court 
it is uncertain, we are informed that no fewer than 280 voted 
against him. In Rome, the Praetor, who was the proper Judge, 
both in civil and criminal causes, named for every cause of 
moment, the Judices Selecti, as they were called, who were 
always numerous, and had the office and power of both Judge 
and Jury. In the famous cause of Milo, Cicero spoke to 
fifty-one Judices Selecti, and so had the advantage of addressing 
his whole pleading, not to one or a few learned Judges of the 
point of law, as is the case with us, but to an assembly of Roman 
Citizens. Hence, all those arts of Popular Eloquence, which 
we find the Roman Orators so frequently employing, and pro- 
bably with much success. Hence tears and commiseration are 
so often made use of as the instruments of gaining a cause. 
Hence certain practices, which would be reckoned theatrical 
among us, were common at the Roman Bar; such as intro- 
ducing not only the accused person dressed in deep mourning, 

* Vide Potter, Antiq. vol. i. p. 102. 

z 2 



316 ELOQUENCE [LECT. XXVIII. 

but presenting to the Judges his family, and his young children, 
endeavouring to move them by their cries and tears. 

For these reasons, on account of the wide difference between 
the ancient and modern state of the Bar, to which we may add 
also the difference in the turn of ancient and modern Eloquence, 
which I formerly took notice of, too strict an imitation of Ci- 
cero's manner of pleading would now be extremely injudicious. 
To great advantage he may still be studied by every Speaker at 
the Bar. In the address with which he opens his subject, and 
the insinuation he employs for gaining the favour of the Judges ; 
in the distinct arrangement of his facts ; in the gracefulness of 
his narration ; in the conduct and exposition of his arguments, 
he may and he ought to be imitated. A higher pattern cannot 
be set before us ; but one who should imitate him also in his 
exaggeration and amplifications, in his diffuse and pompous 
declamation, and in his attempts to raise passion, would now 
make himself almost as ridiculous at the Bar, as if he should 
appear there in the Toga of a Boman Lawyer. 

Before I descend to more particular directions concerning 
the Eloquence of the Bar, I must be allowed to take notice, 
that the foundation of a Lawyer's reputation and success must 
always be laid in a profound knowledge of his own profession. 
Nothing is of such consequence to him, or deserves more his 
deep and serious. study. For whatever his abilities as a speaker 
may be, if his knowledge of the law be reckoned superficial, 
few will choose to commit their cause to him. Besides previous 
study, and a proper stock of knowledge attained, another thing 
highly material to the success of every Pleader, is a diligent and 
painful attention to every cause with which he is entrusted, so 
as to be' thoroughly master of all the facts and circumstances 
relating to it. On this the ancient Rhetoricians insist with great 
earnestness, and justly represent it as a necessary basis to all the 
Eloquence that can be exerted in pleading. Cicero tells us 
(under the character of Antonius, in the second book De Ora- 
tore,) that he always conversed at full length with every client 
who came to consult him ; that he took care there should be no 
witness to their conversation, in order that his client might 
explain himself more freely ; that he was wont to start every 
objection, and to plead the cause of the adverse party with him, 
that he might come at the whole truth, and be fully prepared on 
every point of the business ; and that after the client had retired, 
he used to balance all the facts with himself, under three dif- 
ferent characters, his own, that of the Judge, and that of the 
Advocate on the opposite side. He censures very severely those 
1 of the profession who declined taking so much trouble ; taxing 
them not only with shameful negligence, but with dishonesty 
and breach of * trust. To the same purpose Quinctilian, in the 

* " Equidem soleo dare operara, ut de sua quisque re mi ipse doceat ; et nequis alius 
adsit, quo liberius loquatur ; et agere adversarii causam, ut ille agat suam ; et quicquid 



LECT. XXVIII.] OP THE BAR. 317 

eighth chapter of his last book, delivers a great many excellent 
rules concerning all the methods which a Lawyer should employ 
for attaining the most thorough knowledge of the cause he is to 
plead ; again and again recommending patience and attention in 
conversation with clients, and observing very sensibly, " Non 
tarn obest audire, surpervacua, quam ignorare, necessaria. Fre- 
quenter enim et vulnus, et remedium, in iis Orator inveniet quae 
litigatori in neutram partem, habere momentum videbantur." # 

Supposing an Advocate to be thus prepared, with all the 
knowledge which the study of the law in general, and of that 
cause which he is to plead in particular, can furnish him, I 
must next observe that Eloquence in pleading is of the highest 
moment for giving support to a cause. It were altogether 
wrong to infer, that because the ancient, popular, and vehement 
manner of pleading is now in a great measure superseded, there 
is, therefore, no room for Eloquence at the Bar, and that the 
study of it is become superfluous. Though the manner of 
speaking be changed, yet still there is a right and a proper 
manner which deserves to be studied as much as ever. Perhaps 
there is no scene of public speaking where Eloquence is more 
necessary. For, on other occasions, the subject on which men 
speak in public, is frequently sufficient, by itself, to interest the 
hearers. But the dryness and subtilty of the subjects generally 
agitated at the bar, require, more than any other, a certain kind 
of Eloquence in order to command attention : in order to give 
proper weight to the arguments that are employed, and to pre- 
vent any thing which the pleader advances from passing unre- 
garded. The effect of good speaking is always very great. 
There is as much difference in the impression made upon the 
hearers, by a cold, dry, and confused speaker, and that made by 
one who pleads the same cause with elegance, order, and 
strength, as there is between our conception of an object, when 
it is presented to us in a dim light, and when we behold it in a 
full and clear one. 

It is no small encouragement to Eloquence at the Bar, that 

j of all the liberal professions, none gives fairer play to genius 
and abilities than that of the Advocate. He is less exposed 
than some ^others, to suffer by the arts of rivalry, by popular 
prejudices, or secret intrigues. He is sure of coming forward 

! according to his merit : for he stands forth every day to view ; 

de sua re cogitaret, in medium proferat. Itaque cum ille decessit, tres personas unus 
sustineo, summS, animi equitate ; meam, adversarii, judicis. — Nonnulli dum operam 
suam multam existimari volunt, ut toto foro volitare, et a causa ad causam ire videantur, 
causas dicuut incognitas. In quo est ilia quidem magna offensio, vel negligentiae sus- 
ceptis rebus, vel perfidise receptis ; sed etiam ilia, major opinione, quod nemo potest de 
ea re quam non novit, non turpissime dicere." 

* " To listen to something that is superfluous can do no hurt ; whereas to be ignorant 

j of something that is material, may be highly prejudicial. The advocate will frequently 
discover the weak side of a cause, and learn, at the same time, what is the proper 
defence, from circumstances which, to the party himself, nppeared to be of little or no 

, moment." 



318 ELOQUENCE [LECT. XXVIII. 

he enters the list boldly with his competitors ; every appearance 
which he makes is an appeal to the public ; whose decision 
seldom fails of being just, because it is impartial. Interest and 
friends may set forward a young pleader with peculiar advan- 
tages beyond others, at the beginning ; but they can do no 
more than open the field to him. A reputation resting on these 
assistances will soon fall. Spectators remark, judges decide, 
parties watch ; and to him will the multitude of clients never 
fail to resort, who gives the most approved specimens of his 
knowledge, eloquence, and industry. 

It must be laid down for a first principle, that the Eloquence 
suited to the Bar, whether in speaking, or in writing law papers, 
is of the calm and temperate kind, and connected with close 
reasoning. Sometimes a little play may be allowed to . the 
Imagination, in order to enliven a dry subject, and to give relief 
to the fatigue of attention ; but this liberty must be taken with 
a sparing hand. For a Florid Style, and a sparkling manner, 
never fail to make the speaker be heard with a jealous ear by 
the judge. They detract from his weight, and always produce 
a suspicion of his failing in soundness and strength of argument. 
It is purity and neatness of expression which is chiefly to be 
studied ; a Style perspicuous and proper, which shall not be 
needlessly overcharged with the pedantry of law terms, and 
where, at the same time, no affectation shall appear of avoiding 
these, when they are suitable and necessary. 

Verbosity is a common fault, of which the gentlemen of this 
profession are accused; and into which the habit of speaking 
and writing so hastily, and with so little preparation, as they are 
often obliged to do, almost unavoidably betrays them. It can- 
not, therefore, be too much recommended to those who are 
beginning to practice at the bar, that they should early study to 
guard against this, while as yet they have full leisure for prepa- 
ration. Let them form themselves, especially in the papery 
which they write, to the habit of a strong and a correct style - T 
which expresses the same thing much better in a few words, 
than is done by the accumulation of intricate and endless periods. 
If this habit be once acquired, it will become natural to them 
afterwards, when the multiplicity of business shall force them to 
compose in a more precipitate manner. Whereas, if the practice 
of a loose and negligent style has been suffered to become 
familiar, it will not be in their power, even upon occasions when 
they wish to make an unusual effort, to express themselves with 
energy and grace. 

Distinctness is a capital property in speaking at the bar. This 
should be shown chiefly in two things : first, in stating the ques- 
tion;, in showing clearly what is the point in debate; what we 
admit ; what we deny ; and where the line of division begins 
between us and the adverse party. Next, it should be shown 
S& the order and arrangement of all the parts of the pleading. 



LECT. XXVIII.] OF THE BAK. 319 

In every sort of Oration, a clear method is of the utmost conse- 
quence ; but in those embroiled and difficult cases which belong 
to the bar r it is almost all in all. Too much pains, therefore, 
cannot be taken in previously studying the plan and method. 
If' there be indistinctness and disorder there, we can have no 
success in convincing ; we leave the whole cause in darkness. 

With respect to the conduct of Narration and Argumentation, 
I shall hereafter make several remarks, when I come to treat of 
the component parts of a regular Oration. I shall at present 
only observe, that the Narration of facts at the Bar, should 
always be as concise as the nature of them will admit. Facts 
are always of the greatest consequence to be remembered during 
the course of the pleading ; but if the pleader be tedious in his 
manner of relating them, and needlessly circumstantial, he lays 
too great a load upon the memory. Whereas, by cutting off all 
superfluous circumstances in his recital, he adds strength to the 
material facts : he both gives a clearer view of what he relates, 
and makes the impression of it more lasting. In Argumentation, 
again, I would incline to give scope to a more diffuse manner at 
the Bar, than on some other occasions. For in popular assem- 
blies, where the subject of debate is often a plain question, 
Arguments taken from known topics, gain strength by their 
conciseness, But the obscurity of law points frequently requires 
the arguments to be spread out, and placed in different lights in 
order to be fully apprehended. 

When the Pleader comes to refute the arguments employed 
by his adversary, he should be on his guard not to do them 
injustice by disguising or placing them in a false light. The 
deceit is soon discovered : it will not fail of being exposed ; and 
tends to impress the judge and the hearers with distrust of the 
speaker, as one who either wants discernment to perceive, or 
wants fairness to admit, the strength of the reasoning on the 
other side. Whereas, when they see that he states, with accu- 
racy and candour, the arguments which have been used against 
himj before he proceeds to combat them, a strong prejudice is 
created in his favour. They are naturally led to think, that he 
has a clear and full conception of all that can be said on both 
sides of the argument ; that he has entire confidence in the 
goodness of his own cause ; and does not attempt to support it 
by any artifice or concealment. The Judge is thereby inclined 
to receive, much more readily, the impressions which are given 
him by a speaker, who appears both so fair and so penetrating. 
There is no part of the discourse, in which the Orator has greater 
opportunity of showing a masterly address, than when he sets 
himself to represent the reasonings of his antagonists, in order 
to refute them. 

Wit may sometimes be of service at the Bar, especially in a 
lively reply, by which we may throw ridicule on something that 
has been said on the other side. But though the reputation of 



320 ANALYSIS OF CICERO'S [LECT. XXVIII. 

wit be dazzling to a young Pleader, I would never advise him 
to rest his strength, upon this talent. It is not his business to 
make an audience laugh, but to convince the Judge ; and seldom 
or never did any one rise to eminence in his profession, by being 
a witty Lawyer. 

A proper degree of warmth in pleading a cause is always of 
use. Though, in speaking to a multitude, greater vehemence be 
natural ; yet, in addressing ourselves even to a single man, the 
warmth which arises from seriousness and earnestness, is one of 
the most powerful means of persuading him. An Advocate 
personates his client ; he has taken upon him the whole charge 
of his interests ; he stands in his place. It is improper, there- 
fore, and has a bad effect upon the cause, if he appears indiffer- 
ent and unmoved ; and few clients will be fond of trusting their 
interests in the hands of a cold Speaker. 

At the same time, he must beware of prostituting his earnest- 
ness and sensibility so much as to enter with equal warmth into 
every cause that is committed to him, whether it can be supposed 
really to excite his zeal or not. There is a dignity of character, 
which it is of the utmost importance for every one in his pro- 
fession to support. For it must never be forgotten, that there 
is no instrument of persuasion more powerful, than an opinion 
of probity and honour in the person who undertakes to persuade.* 
It is scarcely possible for any hearer to separate altogether the 
impression made by the character of him that speaks, from the 
things that he says. However secretly and imperceptibly, it 
will be always lending its weight to one side or other; either 
detracting from, or adding to, the authority and influence of his 
speech. This opinion of honour and probity must therefore be 
carefully preserved, both by some degree of delicacy in the choice 
of causes, and by the manner of conducting them. And though, 
perhaps, the nature of the profession may render it extremely 
difficult to carry this delicacy its utmost length, yet there are 
attentions to this point, which, as every good man for virtue's 
sake, so every prudent man, for reputation's sake, will find to be 
necessary. He will always decline embarking in causes that 
are odious and manifestly unjust ; and, when he supports a 
doubtful case, he will lay the chief stress upon such arguments 
as appear to his own judgment the most tenable ; reserving his 
zeal and his indignation for cases where injustice and iniquity 
are flagrant. But of the personal qualities and virtues requisite 
in public speakers, I shall afterwards have occasion to discourse. 

These are the chief directions which have occurred to me 
concerning the peculiar strain of speaking at the Bar, In order 
to illustrate the subject farther, I shall give a short. Analysis of 
one of Cicero's Pleadings, or judicial Orations, I have chosen 

* '* Pluriraum ad omnia momenti est in hoc positum, si vir bonus creditur. Sic 
enim contingit, ut non studium advocati, videatur afferre, sed pene testis fidem." 

Quinct. L. iv. C. i. 



LECT. XXVIII.] ORATION FOR CLUENTIUS. 321 

that, pro Cluentio. The celebrated one, pro Milone, is more 
laboured and showy ; but it is too declamatory. That, pro Clu- 
entio, comes nearer the strain of a modern Pleading ; and though 
it has the disadvantage of being very long, and complicated too 
in the subject, yet it is one of the most chaste, correct, and 
forcible of all Cicero's judicial Orations, and well deserves atten- 
tion for its conduct. 

Avitus Cluentius, a Eoman knight of splendid family and 
fortunes, had accused his step-father Oppianicus of an attempt 
to poison him. He prevailed in the prosecution; Oppianicus 
was condemned and banished. But as rumours arose of the 
Judges having been corrupted by money in this cause, these 
gave occasion to much popular clamour, and had thrown a heavy 
odium on Cluentius. Eight years afterwards Oppianicus died. 
An accusation was brought against Cluentius of having poisoned 
him, together with a charge also of having bribed the Judges in 
the former trial to condemn him. In this action Cicero defends 
him. The accusers were Sassia, the mother of Cluentius, and 
widow of Oppianicus,- and young Oppianicus, the son. Q. Naso, 
the Praetor, was Judge, together with a considerable number of 
Judices Selecti. 

The introduction of the Oration is simple and proper, taken 
from no common-place topic, but from the nature of the cause. 
It begins with taking notice, that the whole oration of the 
accuser was divided into two parts.* These two parts were, 
the charge of having poisoned Oppianicus ; on which the accuser, 
conscious of having no proof, did not lay the stress of his cause ; 
but rested it chiefly on the other charge of formerly corrupting 
the Judges, which was capital in certain cases by the Roman law. 
Cicero purposes to follow him in this method, and to apply him- 
self chiefly to the vindication Of his client from the latter charge. 
He makes several proper observations on the danger of Judges 
suffering themselves to be swayed by a popular cry, which often 
is raised by faction, and directed against the innocent. He 
acknowledges that Cluentius had suffered much and long by 
reproach, on account of what had passed at the former trial ; but 
begs only a patient and attentive hearing, and assures the Judges^ 
that he will state every thing relating to that matter so fairly and 
so clearly, as shall give them entire satisfaction. A great appear- 
ance of candour reigns throughout this introduction. 

The crimes with which Cluentius was charged, were heinous* 
A mother accusing her son, and accusing him of such actions, as 
having first bribed judges to condemn her husband, and having 

* " Animadverte, Judices, omnem accusatoris orationem in duas divisam esse partes ; 
quarum altera mihi niti et magnopere confidere videbatur, invidia jam inveterata judicii 
Juniani, altera tanUimmodo consuetudinis causa, timide et diffidenter attingere rationem 
veneficii criminum ; qua de re lege est haec questio constituta. Itaque mini certum est 
hanc eandem distributionem invidiae et criminum sic in defensione servare, ut omnes 
intelligant, nihil me nee subterfugere voluisse reticendo, nee obscurare dicendo." 



322 ANALYSIS OF CICERO'S [LECT. XXVIII. 

afterwards poisoned him, were circumstances that naturally raised 
strong prejudices against Cicero's client. The first step, there- 
fore, necessary for the Orator, was to remove these prejudices ; 
by showing what sort of persons Cluentius's mother and her 
husband Oppianicus were ; and thereby turning the edge of 
public indignation against them. The nature of the cause ren- 
dered this plan altogether proper, and in similar situations it is 
fit to be imitated. He executes his plan with much eloquence 
and force ; and, in doing it, lays open such a scene of infamy and 
complicated guilt, as gives a shocking picture of the manners of 
that age ; and such as would seem incredible, did not Cicero 
refer to the proof that was taken in the former trial, of the facts 
which he alleges. 

Sassia, the mother, appears to have been altogether of an 
abandoned character. Soon after the death of her first husband, 
the father of Cluentius, she fell in love with Aurius Melinus, a 
young man of illustrious birth and great fortune, who was 
married to her own daughter. She prevailed with him to 
divorce her daughter, and then she married him herself.* This 
Melinus being afterwards, by the means of Oppianicus in- 
volved in Sylla's proscription, and put to death; and Sassia 
being left for the second time a widow, and in a very opulent 
situation, Oppianicus himself made his addresses to her. She, 
not startled at the impudence of the proposal, nor at the 
thoughts of marrying one, whose hands had been imbrued in 
her former husband's blood, objected only, as Cicero says, to 
Oppianicus having two sons by his present wife. Oppianicus 
removed the objection, by having his sons privately dispatched; 
and then divorcing his wife, the infamous match was concluded 
between him and Sassia. These flagrant deeds are painted, 
as we may well believe, with the highest colours of Cicero's 
Eloquence, which here has a very proper field. Cluentius, as a 
man of honour, could no longer live on any tolerable terms with 
a woman, a mother only in the name, who had loaded herself 
and all her family with so much dishonour ; and hence the feud 
which had ever since subsisted between them, and had involved 
her unfortunate son in so much trouble and persecution. As for 
Oppianicus, Cicero gives a sort of history of his life, and a 
full detail of his crimes ; and by what he relates, Oppianicus 
appears to have been a man daring, fierce, and cruel, insatiable 
in avarice and ambition ; trained and hardened in all the crimes 

* " Lectum ilium "genialem quern biennio ante fibre suae nubenti straverat, in eadem 
domo sibi ornari et sterni, expulsa atque exturbata. filia, jubet. Nubit genero socrus, 
nullis auspicibus funestis omnibus omnium. O mulieris scelus incredibile, et praeter 
banc unam, in omni vita inauditum ! O audaciam singularem ! non timuisse, si minus 
vim Deorum, bominumque famam, at illam ipsam noctem, facesque illas nuptiales? 
non limen cubiculi ? non cubile filiaa 1 non parietes denique ipsos superiorum testes nup- 
tiarum ? perfregit acprostravit. omnia cupiditate et furore ? vicit pudorem libido ; timo- 
rem-audacia; rationem amentia." The warmth of Cicero's Eloquence, which this, 
passage beautifully exemplifies, is here fully justified by. the subject.. 



LECT. XXVIII.] ORATION FOR CLUENTIUS. 323 

which those turbulent times of Marius and Sylla's proscriptions 
produced : " Such a man," says our orator, " as, in place of 
being surprised that he was condemned, you ought rather to 
wonder that he had escaped so long." 

And now, having prepared the way by all this narration, 
which is clear and elegant, he enters on the history of that 
famous trial in which his client was charged with corrupting the 
Judges. Both Cluentius and Oppianicus were of the city 
Larinum. In a public contest about the rights of the freemen 
of that city, they had taken opposite sides, which embittered 
the misunderstanding already subsisting been them. Sassia 
now the wife of Oppianicus, pushed him on to the destruction 
of her son, whom she had long hated, as one who was conscious 
of her crimes; and as Cluentius was known to have made 
no wiH, they expected, upon his death, to succeed to his 
fortune. The plan was formed, therefore, to dispatch him by 
poison ; which, considering their former conduct, is no incredible 
part of the story. Cluentius was at that time indisposed : the 
servant of his physician was to be bribed to give him poison, 
and one Fabricius^ an intimate friend of Oppianicus, was em- 
ployed in the negotiation. The servant having made the dis- 
covery, Cluentius first prosecuted Scamander, a freedman of 
Fabricius, in whose custody the poison was found ; and after- 
wards Fabricius, for this attempt upon his life. He prevailed 
in both actions : and both these persons were condemned by the 
voices, almost unanimous, of the Judges. 

Of both these Prejudicia, as our author calls them, or previous 
trials, he gives a very particular account ; and rests upon them a 
great part of his argument, as, in neither of them, there was the 
least charge or suspicion of any attempt to corrupt the Judges. 
But in both these trials, Oppianicus was pointed at plainly ; 
in both Scamander and Fabricius were prosecuted as only the 
instruments and ministers of his cruel designs. As a natural 
consequence, therefore, Cluentius immediately afterwards raised 
a third prosecution, against Oppianicus himself, the contriver 
and author of the whole. It was in this prosecution, that 
money was said to have been given to the Judges ; all Rome 
was filled with the report of it, and the alarm loudly raised, that 
no man's life or liberty was safe, if such dangerous practices 
were not checked. By the following arguments, Cicero defends 
his client against this heavy charge of the Crimeiv corrupti 
Judicii. 

He reasons, first, that there was not the least reason to suspect 
it; seeing the condemnation of Oppianicus was a direct and 
necessary consequence of the judgments given against Sca- 
mander and Fabricius, in the two former trials ; trials, that were 
fair and uncorrupted, to the satisfaction of the whole world, 
Yet by these, the road was laid clearly open to the detection of 
Opoianicus's guilt. His instruments and ministers being once 



324 ANALYSIS OF CICERO'S [LECT. XXVIII. 

condemned, and by the very same Judges too, nothing could be 
more absurd than to raise a cry about an innocent person being 
circumvented by bribery, when it was evident, on the contrary, 
that a guilty person was now brought into judgment, under such 
circumstances, that unless the Judges were altogether incon- 
sistent with themselves, it was impossible for him to be ac- 
quitted. 

He reasons next, that, if in this trial there were any cor- 
ruption of the Judges by money, it was infinitely more probable, 
that corruption should have proceeded from Oppianicus than 
from Cluentius. For setting aside the difference of character 
between the two men, the one fair, the other flagitious ; what 
motive had Cluentius to try so odious and dangerous an ex- 
periment, as that of bribing Judges ? Was it not much 
more likely that he should have had recourse to this last re- 
medy, who saw and knew himself and his cause to be in 
the utmost danger ; than the other, who had a cause clear 
in itself, and of the issue of which, in consequence of the two 
previous sentences given by the same Judges, he had full reason 
to be confident? Was it not much more likely, that he 
should bribe, who had every thing to fear; whose life and 
liberty, and fortune were at stake ; than he who had already 
prevailed in a material part of his charge, and who had no 
further interest in the issue of the prosecution, than as justice 
was concerned? 

In the third place, he asserts it as a certain fact, that 
Oppianicus did attempt to bribe the Judges ; that the cor- 
ruption in this trial, so much complained of, was employed, 
not by Cluentius, but against him. He calls on Titus Attius, 
the Orator on the opposite side ; he challenges him to deny, 
if he can, or if he dare, that Stalenus, one of the thirty-two 
Judices Selecti, did receive money from Oppianicus, ; he names 
the sum that was given; he names the persons that were 
present, when, after the trial was over, Stalenus was obliged to 
refund the bribe. This is a strong fact, and would seem quite 
decisive. But, unluckily, a very cross circumstance occurs 
here. For this very Stalenus gave his voice to condemn Oppi- 
anicus. For this strange incident Cicero accounts in the follow- 
ing manner : Stalenus, says he, known to be a worthless man, 
and accustomed before to the like practices, entered into a 
treaty with Oppianicus to bring him off, and demanded for 
that purpose a certain sum, which he undertook to distribute 
among a competent number of the other Judges. When he 
was once in possession of the money ; when he found a greater 
treasure, than ever he had been master of, deposited in his 
empty and wretched habitation, he became very unwilling 
to part with any of it to his colleagues ; and bethought himself 
of some means by which he could contrive to keep it all to 
himself. The scheme which he devised for this purpose, was, 



LECT. XXVIII.] ORATION FOR CLUENTIUS. 325 

to promote the condemnation, instead of the acquittal of Oppi- 
anicus ; as, from a condemned person, he did not apprehend 
much danger of being called to account, or being obliged 
to make restitution. Instead, therefore, of endeavouring to gain 
any of his colleagues, he irritated such as he had influence with 
against Oppianicus, by first promising them money in his name, 
and afterwards telling them, that Oppianicus had cheated him.* 
When sentence was to be pronounced, he had taken measures 
for being absent himself; but being brought by Oppianicus's 
Lawyers from another court, and obliged to give his voice, he 
found it necessary to lead the way, in condemning the man 
whose money he had taken, without fulfilling the bargain which 
he had made with him. 

By these plausible facts and reasonings, the character of Clu- 
entius seems in a great measure cleared; and, what Cicero 
chiefly intended, the odium thrown upon the adverse party. But 
a difficult part of the Orator's business still remained. There 
were several subsequent decisions of the Prastor, the Censors, 
and the Senate, against the Judges in this cause ; which all pro- 
ceeded, or seemed to proceed, upon this ground of bribery and 
corruption ; for it is plain the suspicion prevailed, that if Oppi- 
anicus had given money to Stalenus, Cluentius had outbribed 
him. To all these decisions, however, Cicero replies with much 
distinctness and subtilty of argument ; though it might be 
tedious to follow him through all his reasonings on these heads. 
He shows, that the facts were, at that time, very indistinctly 
known ; that the decisions appealed to were hastily given ; that 
not one of them concluded directly against his Client ; and that, 
such as they were, they were entirely brought about by the in- 
flammatory and factious harangues of Quinctius, the Tribune of 
the People, who had been the Agent and Advocate of Oppi- 
anicus ; and who, enraged at the defeat he had sustained, had 
employed all his tribunitial influence to raise a storm against the 
Judges who condemned his Client. 

At length, Cicero comes to reason concerning the point of 
Law. The Crimen Corrupti Judicii, or the bribing of Judges, 
was capital. In the famous Lex Cornelia de Sicariis, was con- 
tained this clause (which Ave find still extant, Pandect, lib. 
xlviii. Tit. 10. § 1.) : " Qui judicem corruperit, vel corrumpen- 
dum curaverit, hac lege teneatur." This clause, however, we 
learn from Cicero, was restricted to Magistrates and Senators ; 
and as Cluentius was only of the Equestrian Order, he was not, 

* " Cum esset agens, sumptuosus, audax, callidus, perfidiosus, et cum domi suae, 
miserrimis in locis, et inanissimis, tantum nummorum posifcum viderit, ad omnem mali- 
tiam et fraudem versare mentem suam ccepit. Demne Judicibus ? mihi igitur, ipsi 
praeter periculum et infamiam quaeretur ! Siquis eum forte casus ex periculo eripuerit, 
nonne reddendum est"? praecipitantem igitur impellamus, inquit, et perditum proster- 
namus. Capit hoc consilium et pecuniam quibusdam judicibus levissimis polliceatur, 
deinde earn postea supprimat ; ut quoniam graves homines sua sponte severe judicaturos 
putabat, hos qui leviores erant, destitutione iratos Oppianico redderet." 



326 ANALYSIS OF CICERO'S [LECT. XXVIII. 

even supposing him guilty, within the law. Of this Cicero avails 
himself doubly : and as he shows here the most masterly ad- 
dress, I shall give a summary of his pleading on this part of the 
cause : " You," says he to the Advocate for the prosecutor, 
" you, T. Attius, I know, had every where given it out, that 
I was to defend my Client, not from facts, not upon the footing 
of innocence, but by taking advantage merely of the law in his 
behalf. Have I done so ? I appeal to yourself. Have I sought 
to Cover him behind a legal defence only? On the contrary, 
have I not pleaded his cause as if he had been a Senator, liable, 
by the Cornelian law, to be capitally convicted; and shown, 
that neither proof nor probable presumption lies against his 
innocence? In doing so, I must acquaint you, that I have 
complied with the desire of Cluentius himself. For when he 
first consulted me in this cause, and when I informed him that 
it was clear no action could be brought against him from the 
Cornelian Law, he instantly besought and obtested me, that 
I would not rest his defence upon that ground ; saying, with 
tears in his eyes, That his reputation was as dear to him as his 
life ; and that what he sought as an innocent man, was not only 
to be absolved from any penalty, but to be acquitted in the 
opinion of all his fellow citizens. 

" Hitherto, then, I have pleaded this cause upon his plan. 
But my Client must forgive me, if now I shall plead it upon 
my own. For I should be wanting to myself, and to that 
regard which my character and station require me to bear to 
the laws of the State, if I should allow any person to be judged 
of by a law which does not bind him. You, Attius, indeed, 
have told us, that it was a scandal and reproach, that a Roman 
Knight should be exempted from those penalties to which 
a Senator, for corrupting Judges, is liable. But I must tell 
you, that it would be a much greater reproach, in a State that is 
regulated by law, to depart from the law. What safety have 
any of us in our persons, what security for our rights, if the 
law shall be set aside ? By what title do you, Q. Naso, sit in that 
chair, and preside in this judgment ? By what right, T. Attius, 
do you accuse, or do I defend ? Whence all the solemnity and 
pomp of Judges, and Clerks, and Officers, of which this house is 
full ? Does not all proceed from the law, which regulates the 
whole departments of the State; which, as a common bond, 
holds its members together ; and, like the soul within the body, 
actuates and directs all the public functions ?* On what ground, 

* " Ait Attius, indignum esse facinus, si senator judicio quemquam circumvenerit, 
eum legibus teneri ; si Eques Romanus hoc idem fecerit, eum non teneri. Ut tibi con- 
cedam hoc indignum esse, tu mihi concedas necesse est multo esse indignius, in ea 
civitate quae legibus contineatur, discedi a legibus. Hoc nam vinculum est hujus digni- 
tatis qua fruimur in republica. Hoc fundamentum libertatis ; hie fons equitatis j mens 
et animus, et consilium, et sententia civitatis posita est in legibus. Ut corpora nostra 
sine mente, sic civitas sine lege, suis partibus, ut nervis ac sanguine et membris, uti non 
potest. Legum ministri, magistratus ; legum interpretes, judices ; legum denique id- 



LECT. XXVIII.] ORATION FOR CLUENTIUS. 327 

then, dare you speak lightly of the law, or move that, in a 
criminal trial, Judges should advance one step beyond what 
it permits them to go ? The wisdom of our ancestors has found, 
that, as Senators and Magistrates enjoy higher dignities, and 
greater advantages than other members of the State, the Law 
should also, with regard to them, be more strict, and the purity 
and uncorruptedness of their morals be guarded by more severe 
sanctions. But if it be your pleasure that this institution should 
be altered, if you wish to have the Cornelian Law, concerning 
bribery, extended to all ranks, then let us join, not in violating 
the law, but in proposing to have this alteration made by a new 
law. My client, Cluentius, will be the foremost in this measure, 
who now, while the old law subsists, rejected its defence, 
and required his cause to be pleaded, as if he had been bound by 
it. But, though he would not avail himself of the law, you are 
bound in justice not to stretch it beyond its proper limits." 

Such is the reasoning of Cicero on this head; eloquent, 
surely, and strong. As his manner is diffuse, I have greatly 
abridged it from the original, but have endeavoured to retain 
its force. In the latter part of the Oration, Cicero treats of 
the other accusation that was brought against Cluentius, of 
having poisoned Oppianicus. On this, it appears, his accusers 
themselves laid small stress; having placed their chief hope 
in overwhelming Cluentius with the odium of bribery in the 
former trial; and therefore, on this part of the cause, Cicero 
does not dwell long. He shows the improbability of the whole 
tale which they related concerning this pretended poisoning, 
and makes it appear to be altogether destitute of any shadow 
of proof 

JSothing, therefore, remains but the Peroration, or Conclusion 
of the whole. In this, as indeed throughout the whole of this 
oration, Cicero is uncommonly chaste, and, in the midst of much 
warmth and earnestness, keeps clear of turgid declamation. The 
Peroration turns on two points ; the indignation which the 
character and conduct of Sassia ought to excite, and the com- 
passion due to a son, persecuted through his whole life by such 
a mother. He recapitulates the crimes of Sassia ; her lewdness, 
her violation of every decorum, her incestuous marriages, her 
violence and cruelty. He places, in the most odious light, the 
eagerness and fury which she had shown in the suit she was 
carrying on against her son ; describes her journey from Larinum 
to Borne, with a train of attendants, and a great store of money, 
that she might employ every method for circumventing and 
oppressing him in this trial ; while, in the whole course of her 
journey, she was so detested, as to make a solitude wherever she 
lodged ; she was shunned and avoided by all ; her company, and 
her very looks, were reckoned contagious : the house was deemed 

circo omnes simus servi, ut liber esse possimus. Quid est, Q. Naso, cur tu in hoc loco 
sedeas?" &c. 



328 OEATION FOR CLUENTIUS. [LECT. XXVIII. 

polluted which was entered into by so abandoned a woman.* To 
this he opposes the character of Cluentius, fair, unspotted, and 
respectable. He produces the testimonies of the magistrates of 
Larinum in his favour, given in the most ample and honourable 
manner by a public decree, and supported by a great concourse 
of the most noted inhabitants, who were now present, to second 
every thing that Cicero could say in favour of Cluentius. 

" Wherefore, Judges," he concludes, " if you abominate crimes, 
stop the triumph of this impious woman, prevent this most un- 
natural mother from rejoicing in her son's blood. If you love 
virtue and worth, relieve this unfortunate man, who, for so 
many years, has been exposed to most unjust reproach through 
the calumnies raised against him by Sassia, Oppianicus, and all 
their adherents. Better far had it been for him to have ended 
his days at once by the poison which Oppianicus had prepared 
for him, than to have escaped those snares, if he must still be 
oppressed by an odium which I have shown to be so unjust. 
But in you he trusts, in your clemency and your equity, that 
now, on a full and fair hearing of his cause, you will restore him 
to his honour; you will restore him to his friends and fellow- 
citizens, of whose real and high estimation of him you have seen 
such strong proofs ; and will show, by your decision, that though 
faction and calumny may reign for a while in popular meetings 
and harangues, in trial and judgment regard is paid to the 
truth only." 

I have given only a skeleton of this Oration of Cicero. What 
I have principally aimed at, was to show his disposition and 
method ; his arrangement of facts, and the conduct and force of 
some of his main arguments. But, in order to have a full view 
of the subject, and of the art with which the Orator manages it, 
recourse must be had to the original. Few of Cicero's Orations 
contain a greater variety of facts and argumentations, which 
renders it difficult to analyze it fully. But for this reason I 
choose it, as an excellent example of managing at the Bar a 
complex and intricate cause, with order, elegance, and force. 

* '' Cum appropinquare hujus judicium ei nuntiatum est, confestim hie advolavit ; 
ne aut accusatoribus diligentia, aut pecunia testibus deesset ; aut ne forte mater hoc sibi 
optatissimum spectaculum hujus soi'dium atque luctus, et tanti squaloris amitteret. Jam 
vero quod iter Rom am hujus mulieris fuisse existimatis ! Quod ego propter vicinitatem 
Aquinatium et Venafranorum ex multis comperi : quos coucursus in his oppidis 1 
Quantos et virorum et mulierum gemitus esse factos? Mulierum quandam Larino, 
atque illam usque a mari supero Romam proficisci cum magno comitatu et pecunia, quo 
facilius circumvenire judicio capitis, atque opprimere filium possit. Nemo erat illorum, 
poene dicam, quin expiandum ilium locum esse arbitraretur quacunque ilia iter fecisset ; 
nemo quin terram ipsam violari, quae mater est omnium, vestigiis consceleratae matris 
putaret. Itaque nullo in oppido consistendi ei potestas fuit : nemo ex tot hospitibus 
inventus est qui non contagionem aspectus fugeret." 



LECT. XXIX.] ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 329 

LECTUBE XXIX. 

ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 

Before treating of the structure and component parts of a 
regular Oration, I purposed making some observations on the 
peculiar strain, the distinguishing characters, of each of the three 
great kinds of Public Speaking. I have already treated of the 
Eloquence of Popular Assemblies, and of the Eloquence of the 
Bar. The subject which remains for this Lecture is, the strain 
and spirit of that Eloquence, which is suited to the Pulpit. 

Let us begin with considering the advantages and disadvan- 
tages, which belong to this field of Public Speaking. The 
Pulpit has plainly several advantages peculiar to itself. The 
dignity and importance of its subjects must be acknowledged 
superior to any other. They are such as ought to interest every 
one, and can be brought home to every man's heart ; and such 
as admit, at the same time, both the highest embellishment in 
describing, and the greatest vehemence and warmth in enforcing 
them. The Preacher has also great advantages in treating his 
subjects. He speaks not to one or a few Judges, but to a large 
Assembly. He is secure from all interruption. He is obliged 
to no replies, or extemporaneous efforts. He chooses his theme 
at leisure ; and comes to the public with all the assistance which 
the inost accurate premeditation can give him. 

But, together with these advantages, there are also peculiar 
difficulties that attend the Eloquence of the Pulpit. The 
Preacher, it is true, has no trouble in contending with an adver- 
sary ; but then Debate and Contention enliven genius, and 
procure attention. The Pulpit Orator is, perhaps, in too quiet 
possession of his field. His subjects of discourse are, in them- 
selves, noble and important, but they are subjects trite and 
familiar. They have for ages employed so many speakers and 
so many pens ; the public ear is so much accustomed to them, 
that it requires more than an ordinary power of genius to fix 
attention. Nothing within the reach of art is more difficult, than 
to bestow on what is common, the grace of novelty. No sort of 
composition whatever is such a trial of skill, as where the merit 
of it lies wholly in the execution ; not in giving any information 
that is new, not in convincing men of what they did not believe ; 
but in dressing truths which they knew, and of which they were 
before convinced, in such colours as may most forcibly affect 
their imagination and heart.* It is to be considered too, that 
the subject of the Preacher generally confines him to abstract 

* What I have said on this subject, coincides very much with the observations made 
by the famous M. Bruyere, in his Maeurs de Siecle, when he is comparing the Eloquence 

A A 



330 ELOQUENCE [LECT. XXIX. 

qualities, to virtues and vices ; whereas, that of other popular 
Speakers leads them to treat of persons ; which is a subject that 
commonly interests the hearers more, and takes faster hold of 
the imagination. The Preacher's business is solely to make you 
detest the crime. The Pleader's to make you detest the criminal. 
He describes a living person ; and with more facility rouses 
your indignation. From these causes, it comes to pass, that 
though we have a great number of moderately good Preachers, 
we have, however, so few that are singularly eminent. We are 
still far from perfection in the Art of Preaching ; and perhaps 
there are few things in which it is more difficult to excel.* The 
object, however, is noble, and worthy, upon many accounts, of 
being pursued with zeal. 

It may, perhaps, occur to some, 4;hat Preaching is no proper 
subject of the Art of Eloquence. This it may be said, belongs 
only to human studies and inventions : but the truths of religion, 
with the greater simplicity, and the less mixture of art they are 
set forth, are likely to prove the more successful. This objection 
would have weight, if Eloquence were, as the persons who make 
such an objection commonly take it to be, an ostentatious and 
deceitful art, the study of words and of plausibility only, calcu- 
lated to please, and to tickle the ear. But against this idea of 
Eloquence I have all along guarded. True Eloquence is the art 
of placing truth in the most advantageous light for conviction 
and persuasion. This is what every good man who preaches the 
Gospel not only may, but ought to have at heart. It is most 
intimately connected with the success of his ministry ; and were 

of the Pulpit to that of the Bar. " L'Eloquence de la chaire, en ce qui y entre d'humain, 
et du talent de l'orateur, est cachee, counue de peu de personnes, et d'une difficile 
execution. II faut marcher par des chemins battus, dire ce qui a ete dit, et ce qui Ton 
prevoit que vous allez dire : les matieres sont grandes, mais usees et triviales ; les 
principes surs, mais dont les auditeurs penetrent les conclusions d'une seule vue : il y 
entre de sujets qui sont sublimes, mais qui peut iraiter le sublime ? — Le Predicateur 
n'est point soutenu comme I'avocat par des faits toujours nouveaux, par de differens 
evenemens, par des avantures inouies ; il ne s'exerce point sur les question* douteuses ; j 
il ne fait point valoir les violentes conjectures, et les presomptions ; toutes choses, 
neanmoins, qui elevent le genie, lui donnent de la force, et de l'etendue, et qui con- 
traignent bien moins l'eloquence, qu'elles ne le fixent, et le dirigent. II doit, au con- 
traire, tirer son discours d'une source commune, et a tout le monde puiser ; et s'il 
s'ecarte de ces lieux communs, il n'est plus populaire ; il est abstrait ou declamateur." 
The inference which he draws from these reflections is very just — " II est plus aise de 
precher que de plaider ; mais plus difficile de bien precher que de bien plaider." Les 
Characteres, ou Mceurs de ce Siecle, p. 601. 

* What I say here, and in other passages, of our being far from perfection in the Art 
of Preaching, and of there being few who are singularly eminent in it, is to be always 
understood as referring to an ideal view of the perfection of this art, which none, per- 
haps, since the days ot the Apostles, ever did, or ever will, reach. But in that degree 
of the Eloquence of the Pulpit, which promotes, in a considerable measure, the great 
end of edification, and gives a just title to high reputation and esteem, there are many 
who hold a very honourable rank. J agree entirely in opinion with a candid judge 
(Dr. Campbell on Rhetoric, B. i. c. 10.), who observes, that considering how rare the 
talent of Eloquence is among men, and considering all the disadvantages under which 
Preachers labour, particularly from the frequency of this exercise, joined with the other 
duties of their office, to which fixed Pastors are obliged, there is more reason to wonder 
that we hear so many instructive, and even eloquent Sermons, than that we hear so few. 



LECT. XXIX.] OF THE PULPIT. , 331 

it needful, as assuredly it is not, to reason any further on this 
head, we might refer to the Discourses of the Prophets and 
Apostles, as models of the most sublime and persuasive Elo- 
quence, adapted both to the imagination and the passions of men. 

An essential requisite, in order to preach well, is to have a 
just, and at the same time, a fixed and habitual view of the end 
of preaching. For in no art can any man execute well, who 
has not a just idea of the end and object of that art. The end 
of all preaching is, to persuade men to become good. Every 
Sermon therefore, shoidd be a persuasive oration ; not but that 
the Preacher is to instruct and to teach, to reason and to argue. 
All persuasion, as I showed formerly, is to be founded on con- 
viction. The understanding must always be applied to in the 
first place, in order to make a lasting impression on the heart ; 
and he who would work on men's passions, or influence their 
practice, without first giving them just principles, and enlighten- 
ing their minds, is no better than a mere declaimer. He may 
raise transient emotions, or kindle a passing ardour ; but can 
produce no solid or lasting effect. At the same time, it must be 
remembered, that all the Preacher's instructions are to be of the 
practical kind ; and that persuasion must ever be his ultimate 
object. It is not to discuss some abstruse point, that he ascends 
the Pulpit. It is not to illustrate some metaphysical truth, or 
to inform men of something which they never heard before ; but 
it is to make them better men ; it is to give them at once, clear 
views, and persuasive impressions of religious truth. The Elo- 
quence of the Pulpit, then must be Popular Eloquence. 
One of the first qualities of preaching is to be popular; not in 
the sense of accommodation to the humours and prejudices of 
the people, (which tends only to make a preacher contemptible), 
but in the true sense of the word, calculated to make impression 
on the people ; to strike and seize their hearts. I scruple not 
therefore to assert, that the abstract and philosophical manner of 
preaching, however it may have sometimes been admired, is 
formed upon a very faulty idea, and deviates widely from the just 
plan of Pulpit Eloquence. Rational, indeed, a Preacher ought 
always to be ; he must give his audience clear ideas on every 
subject, and entertain them with sense, not with sound ; but to 
be an accurate Peasoner will be small praise, if he be not a per- 
suasive speaker also. 

Now if this be the proper idea of a Sermon, a persuasive ora- 
tion, one very material consequence follows, that the Preacher 
himself, in order to be successful, must be a good man. In a 
preceding Lecture, I endeavoured to show, that on no subject 
can any man be truly eloquent, who does not utter the " verse 
voces ab imo pectore," who does not speak the language of his 
own conviction, and his own feelings. If this holds, as in my 
opinion it does in other kinds of Public Speaking, it certainly 
holds in the highest degree in Preaching. There, it is of the 

A A 2 



332 ELOQUENCE [LECT. XXIX. 

utmost consequence that the Speaker firmly believe both the 
truth and the importance of those principles which he inculcates 
on others ; and not only that he believe them speculatively, but 
have a lively and serious feeling of them. This will always 
give an earnestness and strength, a fervour of piety to his ex- 
hortations, superior in its effects to all the arts of studied Elo- 
quence : and, without it, the assistance of art will seldom be 
able to conceal the mere declaimer. A spirit of true piety 
would prove the most effectual guard against those errors which 
Preachers are apt to commit. It would make their discourses 
solid, cogent, and useful; it would prevent those frivolous and 
ostentatious harangues, which have no other aim than merely to 
make a parade of Speech, or amuse an audience ; and perhaps 
the difficulty of attaining that pitch of habitual piety and good- 
ness, which the perfection of Pulpit Eloquence would require, 
and of uniting it with that thorough knowledge of the world, 
and those other talents which are requisite for excelling in the 
Pulpit, is one of the great causes why so few arrive at very 
high eminence in this sphere. 

The chief characteristics of the Eloquence suited to the Pul- 
pit, as distinguished from the other kinds of Public Speaking, 
appear to me to be these two, Gravity and Warmth. The 
serious nature of the subjects belonging to the Pulpit, requires 
Gravity ; their importance to mankind requires Warmth. It is 
far from being either easy or common to unite these characters 
of Eloquence. The Grave, when it is predominant, is apt to 
run into a dull uniform solemnity. The Warm, when it wants 
gravity, borders on the theatrical and light. The union of the 
two must be studied by all Preachers as of the utmost con- 
sequence, both in the composition of their discourses, and in 
their manner of delivery. Gravity and Warmth united, form 
that character of preaching which the French call Onction ; 
the affecting, penetrating, interesting manner, flowing from a 
strong sensibility of heart in the Preacher to the importance of 
those truths which he delivers, and an earnest desire that they 
may make full impression on the hearts of his Hearers. 

Next to a just idea of the nature and object of Pulpit Elo- 
quence, the point of greatest importance to a Preacher, is a 
proper choice of the subjects on which he preaches. To give 
rules for the choice of subjects for Sermons, belongs to the 
theological more than the rhetorical chair ; only in general, they 
should be such as appear to the Preacher to be the most use- 
ful and the best accommodated to the circumstances of his 
Audience. ~No man can be called eloquent, who speaks to an 
Assembly on subjects, or in a strain, which none or few of them 
comprehend. The unmeaning applause which the ignorant give 
to what is above their capacity, common sense and common pro- 
bity must teach every man to despise. Usefulness and true 
Eloquence always go together ; and no man can long be reputed 
a good Preacher who is not acknowledged to be an useful one. 



LECT. XXIX.] OF THE PULPIT. 333 

The rules which relate to the conduct of the different parts of 
a Sermon, the Introduction, Division, argumentative and pa- 
thetic parts, I reserve till I come to treat of the conduct of a 
Discourse in general ; but some rules and observations, which 
respect a Sermon as a particular species of composition, I shall 
now give, and I hope they may be of some use. 

The first which I shall mention is, to attend to the Unity of 
a Sermon. Unity indeed is of great consequence in every com- 
position ; but in other Discourses, where the choice and direction 
of the subject are not left to the Speaker, it may be less in his 
power to preserve it. In a Sermon, it must be always the 
Preacher's own fault if he transgress it. What I mean by Unity 
is, that there should be some one main point to which the whole 
strain of the Sermon should refer. It must not be a bundle of 
different subjects strung together, but one subject must pre- 
dominate throughout. This rule is founded on what we all 
experience, that the mind can fully attend only to one capital 
object at a time. By dividing, you always weaken the impres- 
sion. Now, this unity, without which no Sermon can either 
have much beauty, or much force, does not require that there 
should be no divisions or separate heads in the Discourse, or that 
one single thought only should be, again and again, turned up to 
the hearers in different lights. It is not to be understood in so 
narrow a sense : it admits of some variety ; it admits of under 
parts and appendages, provided always that so much Union and 
Connection be preserved, as to make the whole concur in some one 
impression upon the mind. I may employ, for instance, several 
different arguments to enforce the love of God ; I may also in- 
quire, perhaps, into the causes of the decay of this virtue ; still 
one great object is presented to the mind ; but if, because my 
text says, " He that loveth God, must love his brother also," 
I should, therefore, mingle in one Discourse arguments for the 
love of God and for the love of our neighbour, I should offend 
unpurdonably against Unity, and leave a very loose and confused 
impression on the Hearers' minds. 

In the second place, Sermons are always the more striking, 
and commonly the more useful, the more precise and particular 
the subject of them is. This follows, in a great measure, from 
what I was just now illustrating. Though a general subject is 
capable of being conducted with a considerable degree of Unity, 
yet that Unity can never be so complete as in a particular one. 
The impression made must always be more undeterminate ; and 
the instruction conveyed, will, commonly too, be less direct and 
convincing. General subjects, indeed, such as the excellency of 
the pleasures of religion, are often chosen by young Preachers, 
as the most showy, and the easiest to be handled ; and, doubt- 
less, general views of religion are not to be neglected, as on 
several occasions they have great propriety. But these are not 
the subjects most favourable for producing the high effects of 



334 ELOQUENCE [LECT. XXIX. 

preaching. They fall in almost unavoidably with the beaten 
track of common-place thought. Attention is much more com- 
manded by seizing some particular view of a great subject, some 
single interesting topic, and directing to that point the whole 
force of Argument and Eloquence. To recommend some one 
grace or virtue, or to inveigh against a particular vice, furnishes 
a subject not deficient in unity or precision ; but if we confine 
ourselves to that virtue or vice as assuming a particular aspect, 
and consider it as it appears in certain characters, or affects cer- 
tain situations in life, the subject becomes still more interesting. 
The execution is, I admit, more difficult, but the merit and 
the effect are higher. 

In the third place, never study to say all that can be said upon 
a subject ; no error is greater than this. Select the most useful 
the most striking and persuasive topics which the text suggests, 
and rest the discourse upon these. If the doctrines which 
Ministers of the Gospel preach were altogether new to their 
hearers, it might be requisite for them to be exceedingly full on 
every particular, lest there should be any hazard of their not 
affording complete information. But it is much less for the 
sake of information than of persuasion, that Discourses are 
delivered from the Pulpit ; and nothing is more opposite to per- 
suasion, than an unnecessary and tedious fulness. There are 
always some things which the preacher may suppose to be 
known, and some things which he may only slightly touch. If 
he seek to omit nothing which his subject suggests, it will un- 
avoidably happen that he will encumber it, and weaken its force. 

In studying a Sermon, he ought to place himself in the 
situation of a serious Hearer. Let him suppose the subject 
addressed 1 to himself: let him consider what views of it would 
strike him most ; what arguments would be most likely to per- 
suade him ; what parts of it would dwell most upon his mind. 
Let these be employed as his principal materials ; and in these 
it is most likely his genius will exert itself with the greatest 
vigour. The spinning and wire-drawing mode, which is not 
uncommon among Preachers, enervates the noblest truths. It 
may, indeed, be a consequence of observing the rule which I am 
now giving, that fewer sermons will be preached upon one text 
than is sometimes done ; but this will, in my opinion, be attended 
with no disadvantage. I know no benefit that arises from 
introducing a whole system of religious truth under every text. 
The simplest and most natural method by far, is to choose that 
view of a subject to which the text principally leads, and to 
dwell no longer on the text, than is sufficient for discussing the 
subject in that view, which can commonly be done with sufficient 
profoundness and distinctness, in one or a few discourses : for it 
is a very false notion to imagine, that they always preach the 
most profoundly, or go the deepest into a subject, who dwell on 
it the longest. On the contrary, that tedious circuit, which 



LECT. XXIX.] OF THE PULPIT. 335 

some are ready to take in all their illustrations, is very frequently 
owing, either to their want of discernment for perceiving what 
is most important in the subject ; or to their want of ability for 
placing it in the most proper point of view. 

In the fourth place, Study above all things to render your 
instructions interesting to the Hearers. This is the great trial 
and mark of true genius for the Eloquence of the Pulpit : for 
nothing is so fatal to success in preaching, as a dry manner. A 
dry Sermon can never be a good one. In order to preach in an 
interesting manner, much will depend upon the delivery of a 
Discourse ; for the manner in which a man speaks, is of the 
utmost consequence for affecting his audience ; but much will 
also depend on the composition of the Discourse. Correct lan- 
guage, and elegant description, are but the secondary instruments 
of preaching in an interesting manner. The great secret lies, in 
bringing home all that is spoken to the hearts of the Hearers, so 
as to make every man think that the Preacher is addressing him 
in particular. For this end, let him avoid all intricate reason- 
ings; avoid expressing himself in general speculative proposi- 
tions, or laying down practical truths in an abstract metaphy- 
sical manner. As much as possible, the Discourse ought to be 
carried on in the strain of direct address to the Audience ; not 
in the strain of one writing an essay, but of one speaking to a 
multitude, and studying to mix what is called Application, or 
what has an immediate reference to practice, with the doctrinal 
and didactic parts of the Sermon. 

It will be of much advantage to keep always in view the dif- 
ferent ages, characters, and conditions of men, and to accommodate 
directions and exhortations to these different classes of Hearers. 
Whenever you bring forth what a man feels to touch his own 
character, or to suit his own circumstances, you are sure of 
interesting him. No study is more necessary for this purpose, 
than the study of human life, and the human heart. To be able 
to unfold the heart, and to discover a man to himself, in a light 
in which he never saw his own character before, produces a 
wonderful effect. As long as the Preacher hovers in a cloud of 
general observations, and descends not to trace the particular 
lines and features of manners, the Audience are apt to think 
themselves unconcerned in the description. It is the striking 
accuracy of moral characters, that gives the chief power and 
effect to a Preacher's Discourse. Hence, examples founded on 
historical facts, and drawn from real life, of which kind the 
Scriptures afford many, always, when they are well chosen, com- 
mand high attention. ~No favourable opportunity of introducing 
these should be omitted. They correct, in some degree, that 
disadvantage to which I before observed preaching is subject, of 
being confined to treat of qualities in the abstract, not of persons, 
and place the weight and reality of religious truths in the most 
convincing light. Perhaps the most beautiful, and among the 



336 ELOQUENCE [LECT. XXIX. 

most useful Sermons of any, though, indeed, the most difficult 
in composition, are such as are wholly characteristical, or founded 
on the illustration of some peculiar character, or remarkable 
piece of history, in the sacred writings ; by pursuing which one 
can trace, and lay open, some of the most secret windings of 
man's heart. Other topics of preaching have been much beaten : 
but this is a field, which, wide in itself, has hitherto been little 
explored by the composers of Sermons, and possesses all the 
advantages of being curious, new, and highly useful. Bishop 
Butler's Sermon on the character of Balaam, will give an idea of 
that sort of preaching which I have in my eye. 

In the fifth and last place, Let me add a caution against taking 
the model of preaching from particular fashions that chance to 
have the vogue. These are torrents that swell to-day, and will 
have spent themselves by to-morrow. Sometimes it is the taste 
of poetical preaching, sometimes of philosophical, that has the 
fashion on its side ; at one time it must be all pathetic, at another 
time all argumentative, according as some celebrated preacher 
has set the example. Each of these modes, in the extreme, is 
very faulty ; and he who conforms himself to any of them, will 
both cramp genius and corrupt it. It is the universal taste of 
mankind, which is subject to no such changing modes, that alone 
is entitled to possess any authority ; and this will never give its 
sanction to any strain of preaching, but what is founded on human 
nature, connected with usefulness, adapted to the proper idea of 
a Sermon, as a serious persuasive Oration, delivered to a multi- 
tude, in order to make them better men. Let a preacher form 
himself upon this standard, and keep it close in his eye, and he 
will be in a much surer road to reputation, and success at last, 
than by a servile compliance with any popular taste, or transient 
humour of his Hearers. Truth and good sense are firm, and will 
establish themselves ; mode and humour are feeble and fluctu- 
ating. Let him never follow, implicitly, anyone example; or 
become a servile imitator of any Preacher, however much 
admired. From various examples, he may pick up much for his 
improvement : some he may prefer to the rest ; but the servi- 
lity of imitation extinguishes all genius, or rather is a proof of 
the entire want of genius. 

With respect to Style, that which the Pulpit requires, must 
certainly, in the first place, be very perspicuous. As discourses 
spoken there are calculated for the instruction of all sorts of 
hearers, plainness and simplicity should reign in them. All 
unusual, swollen, or high-sounding w 7 ords, should be avoided ; 
especially all words that are merely poetical, or merely philoso- 
phical. Young Preachers are apt to be caught with the glare of 
these ; and in young Composers the error may be excusable ; 
but they may be assured that it is an error, and proceeds from 
their not having yet acquired a correct Taste. Dignity of 
expression, indeed, the Pulpit requires in a high degree ; nothing 



LECT. XXIX.] OF THE PULPIT. 337 

that is mean or grovelling, no low or vulgar phrases, ought on 
any account to be admitted. But this dignity is perfectly con- 
sistent with simplicity. The words employed may be all plain 
words, easily understood, and in common use ; and yet the Style 
may be abundantly dignified, and, at the same time, very lively 
and animated. For a lively and animated Style is extremely 
suited to the Pulpit. The earnestness which a Preacher ought 
to feel, and the grandeur and importance of his subjects, justify 
and often require warm and glowing expressions. He not only 
may employ metaphors and comparisons, but, on proper occasions, 
may apostrophise the saint or the sinner ; may personify inani- 
mate objects, break out into bold exclamations, and, in general, 
has the command of the most passionate figures of Speech. But 
on this subject, of the proper use and management of figures, I 
have insisted so fully in former Lectures, that I have no occasion 
now to give particular directions ; unless it be only to recall to 
mind that most capital rule, never to employ strong figures, or 
a pathetic Style, except in cases where the subject leads to them, 
and where the Speaker is impelled to the use of them by native 
unaffected warmth. 

The language of Sacred Scripture, properly employed, is a 
great ornament to Sermons. It may be employed, either in the 
way of quotation or allusion. Direct quotations, brought from 
Scripture, in order to support what the Preacher inculcates, 
both give authority to his doctrine, and render his discourse 
more solemn and venerable. Allusions to remarkable passages, 
or expressions of Scripture, when introduced with propriety, 
have generally a pleasing effect. They afford the Preacher a 
fund of metaphorical expression, which no other composition 
enjoys, and by means of which he can vary and enliven his 
Style. But he must take care that all such allusions be natural 
and easy ; for if they seem forced, they approach to the nature 
of conceits.* 

In a Sermon, no points or conceits should appear, no affected 
smartness and quaintness of expression. These derogate much 
from the dignity of the Pulpit ; and give to a Preacher that air 
of foppishness, which he ought, above all things, to shun. It is 

* Bishop Sherlock, when showing that the views of reason have been enlarged, and 
the principles of natural religion illustrated, by the discoveries of Christianity, attacks 
unbelievers for the abuse they make of these advantages, in the following manner: 
" What a return do we make for those blessings we have received 1 (low disrespectfully 
do we treat the Gospel of Christ, to which we owe that clear light both of reason and 
nature, vvhich we now enjoy, when we endeavour to set up reason and nature in oppo- 
sition to it \ Ought the withered hand, which Christ has restored and made whole, to 
be lifted up against him?" Vol. 1. Disc. i. This allusion to a noted miracle of our 
Lord's appears to me happy and elegant. Dr. Seed is remarkably fond of allusions to 
Scripture Style ; but he sometimes employs such as are too fanciful and strained. As 
when he says (Serm. iv.), " No one great virtue will come single ; the virtues '' that be 
her fellows will bear her company with joy and gladness : " alluding to a passage in the 
forty-fifth Psalm, which relates to the virgins, the companions of the king's daughter. 
And (Serm. xiii.) having said that the universities have justly been called the eyes of 
the nation, he adds, " and if the eyes of the nation be evil, the whole body must be full 
of darkness." 



338 ELOQUENCE [LECT. XXIX. 

rather a strong expressive Style, than a sparkling one, that is to 
be studied. But we must beware of imagining that we render 
Style strong or impressive, by a constant and multiplied use of 
epithets. This is a great error. Epithets have often great 
beauty and force. But if we introduce them into every Sen- 
tence, and string many of them together to one object, in place 
of strengthening, we clog and enfeeble Style ; in place of illus- 
trating the image, we render it confused and indistinct. He 
that tells me "of this perishing, mutable, and transitory world;" 
by all these three epithets, does not give me so strong an idea of 
what he would convey, as if he had used one of them with pro- 
priety. I conclude this head with an advice, never to have what 
may be called a favourite expression; for it shows affectation, 
and becomes disgusting. Let not any expression, which is 
remarkable for its lustre or beauty, occur twice in the same 
Discourse. The repetition of it betrays a fondness to shine, 
and, at the same time, carries the appearance of a barren in- 
vention. 

As to the question, whether it be most proper to write Ser- 
mons fully, and commit them accurately to memory, or to study 
only the matter and thoughts, and trust the expression, in part 
at least, to the delivery ? I am of opinion, that no universal 
rule can here be given. The choice of either of these methods 
must be left to the Preachers, according to their different genius. 
The expressions which come warm and glowing from the mind, 
during the fervour of pronunciation, will often have a superior 
grace and energy, to those which are studied in the retirement 
of the closet. But then, this fluency and power of expression 
cannot, at all times, be depended upon, even by those of the 
readiest genius ; and by many can at no time be commanded, 
when overawed by the presence of an Audience. It is proper 
therefore to begin, at least, the practice of preaching, with wri- 
ting as accurately as possible. This is absolutely necessary in 
the beginning, in order to acquire the power and habit of correct 
speaking, nay, also of correct thinking, upon religious subjects. 
I am inclined to go further, and to say, that it is proper not only 
to begin thus but also to continue, as long as the habits of in- 
dustry last, in the practice both of writing and committing to 
memory. Relaxation in this particular is so common, and so 
ready to grow upon most Speakers in the Pulpit, that there is 
little occasion for giving any cautions against the extreme of 
over-doing in accuracy. 

Of pronunciation or delivery, I am hereafter to treat apart. 
All that I shall now say upon this head is, that the practice of 
reading Sermons, is one of the greatest obstacles to the Elo- 
quence of the Pulpit in Great Britain, where alone this practice 
prevails. No discourse, which is designed to be persuasive, can 
have the same force when read, as when spoken. The common 
Deople all feel this, and their prejudice against this practice is 



LECT. XXIX.] OF THE PULPIT. 339 

not without foundation in nature. What is gained hereby in 
point of correctness, is not equal, I apprehend, to what is lost in 
point of persuasion and force. They, whose memories are not 
able to retain the whole of a Discourse, might aid themselves 
considerably by short notes lying before them, which would allow 
them to preserve, in a great measure, the freedom and ease of 
one who speaks. 

The French and English writers of Sermons proceed upon 
very different ideas of the Eloquence of the Pulpit; and seem 
indeed to have split it betwixt them. A French Sermon is, for 
most part, a warm animated exhortation; an English one, is a 
piece of cool instructive reasoning. The French Preachers address 
themselves chiefly to the imagination and the passions ; the Eng- 
lish, almost solely to the understanding. It is the union of these 
two kinds of composition, of the French earnestness and warmth, 
with the English accuracy and reason, that would form, according 
to my idea, the model of a perfect Sermon. A French Sermon 
would sound in our ears as a florid, and often, as an enthusiastic, 
harangue. The censure, which, in fact, the French Critics pass 
on the English Preachers is, that they are Philosophers and 
Logicians, but not Orators.* The defects of most of the French 
Sermons are these : from a mode that prevails among them of 
taking their texts from the lesson of the day, the connection of the 
text with the subject is often unnatural and forced ; f their 
applications of Scripture are fanciful rather than instructive ; 
their method is stiff and cramped, by their practice of dividing 
their subject always either into three, or two, main points ; and 
their composition is in general too diffuse, and consists rather of 
a very few thoughts spread out, and highly wrought up, than of 
a rich variety of sentiments. Admitting, however, all these 
defects, it cannot be denied that their Sermons are formed upon 
the idea of a persuasive popular Oration ; and therefore I am of 
opinion, they may be read with benefit. 

Among the French Protestant divines, Saurin is the most 
distinguished : he is copious, eloquent, and devout, though too 
ostentatious in his manner. Among the Eoman Catholics, the 
two most eminent are Bourdaloue, and Massillon. It is a sub- 
ject of dispute among the French Critics, to which of these the 
preference is due, and each of them has his partisans. To Bour- 
daloue, they attribute more solidity and close reasoning; to 
Massillon, a more pleasing and engaging manner. Bourdaloue 

* " Les Sermons sont, suivant notre methode, de vrais discours orntoires; et non pas, 
comme chez les Anglois, des discussions metaphisiques plus convenables a, une Academie, 
qu'aux Assemblies populaires qui se ferment dans nos temples, et qu'il s'agit d'instruire 
des devoirs du Chretianisme, d'encourager, de consoler, d'edifier." 

Rhetorique Francoise, par M. Crevier, torn, i p. 134. 

t One of Massillon's best Sermons, that on the coldness and languor with which 
Christians perform the duties of religion, is preached from Luke, iv. 38. " And he 
arose out of the Synagogue, and entered into Simon's house ; and Simon s wije's mother was 
taken ill with a great fever." 



340 ELOQUENCE [LECT. XXIX. 

is indeed a great reasoner, and inculcates his doctrines with much 
zeal, piety, and earnestness ; but his style is verbose, he is dis- 
agreeably full of quotations from the Fathers, and he wants 
imagination. Massillon has more grace, more sentiment, and, 
in my opinion, every way more genius. He discovers much 
knowledge both of the world and of the human heart ; he is 
pathetic and persuasive; and upon the whole, is perhaps the 
most eloquent writer of Sermons which modern times have 
produced.* 

* In order to give an idea of that land of Eloquence which is employed by the 
French Preachers, I shall insert a passage from Massillon, which, in the Encyclopedic 
(Article, Eloquence), is extolled by Voltaire, who was the Author of that Article, as a 
chef-d'oeuvre, equal to anything of which either ancient or modern times can boast. 
The subject of the Sermon is, the small number of those who shall be saved. The 
Strain ot the whole discourse is extremely serious and animated ; but when the Orator 
came to the passage which follows, Voltaire informs us, that the whole assembly were 
moved ; that by a sort of involuntary motion, they started up from their seats, and that 
sucit murmurs of surprise and acclamations arose as disconcerted the Speaker, though 
they increased the effect of his Discourse. 

" Je m'arrete a vous, mes freres, qui etes ici assembles Je ne parle plus du reste 
des hommes ; je vous regards- comme si vous 6tiez seuls sur la terre : et voici la pens6e 
qui m'occupe et qui m'epouvante. Je suppose que c'est ici votre derniere heure, et la 
fin de l'univers ; que les cieux vont s'ouvrir sur vos tetes, Jesus Christ paroitre dans sa 
gloire au milieu de ce temple, et que vous n'y etes assembles que pour l'attendre, et 
comme des criminels tremblants, a qui Ton va prononcer, ou une sentence de grace, ou 
un arret de mort eternelle : car vous avez beau vous flatter ; vous mourrez tels que vous 
, etes aujourd'hui ; tous ces desirs de changement qui vous amusent, vous amuseront 
jusqu'au lit de la mort : c'est l'experience de tous les siecles ; tout ceque vous trouverez 
alors en vous de nouveau, s'era peut-etre un compte un peu plus grand que celui que 
vous auricz aujourd'hui a rendre ; et sur ce que vous seriez, si Ton venoit vous juger 
dans ce moment, vous pouvez presque decider de ce qui vous arrivera au sortir de la vie. 

" Or, je vous demande, et je vous le demande frappe de terreur, ne s£parant pas en 
ce point mon sort du votre, et me mettant dans la meme disposition, ou je souhaite que 
vous entriez ; je vous demande, done : Si Jesus Christ paroissoit dans ce temple, au 
milieu de cette assemblee, la plus auguste de l'univers, pour nous juger, pour faire le 
terrible discernement des boucs et des brebis, croyez-vous que le plus grand nombre de 
tout ceque nous sommes ici, fut plac6 a la droite ? Croyezvcus que les choses du 
moins fussent 6gales ? croyez-vous qu'il s'y trouvat seulement dix justes, que le Seigneur 
ne put trouver autrefois en cinq villcs toutes entieres ? Je vous le demande ; vous 
l'ignorez, et je l'ignore moi-meme; vous seul, O mon Dieu ! connoissez ceux qui vous 
appartiennent. — Mes freres, notre perte est presque assuree, et nous n'y pensons pas. 
Quand meme dans cette terrible separation, qui se fera un jour, il ne devroit y avoir 
qu'un seul p6cheur de cet assemblee du cote des reprouves, et qu'une voix du ciel 
viendroit nous en assurer dans ce temple, sans le designer ; qui de nous ne craindroit 
d'etre le malheureux 1 qui de nous ne retomberoit d'abord sur la conscience, pour 
examiner si ses crimes n'ont pas merite ce chatiment ? qui de nous, saisie de frayeur, ne 
deman deroit pas a Jesus Christ, comme autrefois les apotres ; Seigneur, ne seroit-ce pas 
moi ? Sommes nous sages, mes chers Auditeurs ? peut-etre que parmi tous ceux qui 
m'entendent, il ne se trouvera pas dix Justes ; peut-etre s'en trouvera-t-il encore moins. 
Que sais-je, O mon Dieu ! je n'ose regarder d'un ceil fixe les abimes de vos jugements 
et de votre justice ; peut etre ne s'en trovera-t-il qu-un seul ; et ce danger ne vous 
touche point, mon cher Auditeur ] et vous croyez etre ce seul heureux dans le grand 
nombre qui perirat vous qui avez moins sujet de le croire que tout autre ; vous sur qui 
seul la sentence de mort devroit tomber. Grand Dieu ! que Ton connoit peu dans le 
monde les terreurs de votre loi, &c."- — After this awakening and alarming exhortation, 
the Orator comes with propriety to this practical improvement: " Mais que conclure 
de\ ces grandes verites? qu'il faut desesperer de son salut ? a Dieu ne plaise; il n'y a 
que l'impie qui pour se calmer sur ses desordres, tache ici de conclure en secret que 
tous les hommes periront comme lui : ce ne doit pas etre la le fruit de ce discours. 
Mais de vous d6tromper de cette erreur si universelle, qu'on peut faire ce que tous les 
autres font ; et que l'usage est une voie sure ; mais de vous convaincre que pour se 



LECT. XXIX.] OF THE PULPIT. 341 

During the period that preceded the restoration of King 
Charles II. the Sermons of the English divines abounded with 
scholastic casuistical theology. They were full of minute divi- 
sions and subdivisions, and scraps of learning in the didactic 
part ; but to these were joined very warm pathetic addresses to 
the consciences of the Hearers, in the applicatory part of the 
Sermon. Upon the Restoration, preaching assumed a more 
correct and polished form. It became disencumbered from the 
pedantry and scholastic divisions of the sectaries ; but it threw 
out also their warm and pathetic addresses, and established itself 
wholly upon the model of cool reasoning, and rational instruction. 
As the Dissenters from the Church continued to preserve some- 
what of the old strain of preaching, this led the established 
Clergy to depart the farther from it. Whatever was earnest 
and passionate, either in the composition or delivery of Sermons, 
was reckoned enthusiastic and fanatical ; and hence that argu- 
mentative manner, bordering on the dry and unpersuasive, which 
is too generally the character of English Sermons. Nothing can 
be more correct upon that model than many of them are ; but 
the model itself on which they are formed, is a confined and im- 
perfect one. Dr. Clark, for instance, every where abounds in 
good sense, and the most clear and accurate reasoning ; his appli- 
cations of Scripture are pertinent ; his Style is always perspi- 
cuous, and often elegant ; he instructs and he convinces ; in what 
then is he deficient ? In nothing, except in the power of inter- 
esting and seizing the heart. He shows you what you ought to 
do ; but he excites not the desire of doing it : he treats man as 
if he were a being of pure intellect, without imagination or 
passions. Archbishop Tillotson's manner is more free and warm, 
and he approaches nearer than most of the English divines to the 
character of Popular Speaking. Hence he is, to this day, one 
of the best models we have for preaching. We must not indeed 
consider him in the light of a perfect Orator : his composition is 
too loose and remiss ; his style too feeble, and frequently too flat, 
to deserve that high character : but there is in some of his Ser- 
mons so much warmth and earnestness, and through them all there 
runs so much ease and perspicuity, such a vein of good sense and 
sincere piety, as justly entitle him to be held as eminent a 
Preacher as England has produced. 

In Dr. Barrow, one admires more the prodigious fecundity of 
his invention, and the uncommon strength and force of his 
conceptions, than the felicity of his execution, or his talent in 
composition. We see a genius far surpassing the common, 
peculiar indeed almost to himself; but that genius often shoot- 
ing wild, and unchastised by any discipline or study cf Elo- 
quence. 



sauver il faut se distinguer des autres ; eUre singulier, vivre a part au milieu du monde, 
et ne pas ressembler a la foule." — Sermons de Massillon, Vol. IV. 



v 



342 ELOQUENCE. [LECT. XXIX. 

I cannot attempt to give particular characters of that great 
number of Writers of Sermons which this and the former age 
have produced, among whom we meet with a variety of the 
most respectable names. We find in their composition much 
that deserves praise ; a great display of abilities of different 
kinds, much good sense and piety, strong reasoning, sound 
divinity, and useful instruction ; though, in general, the degree 
of Eloquence bears not, perhaps, equal proportion to the good- 
ness of the matter. Bishop Atterbury deserves to be parti- 
cularly mentioned as a model of correct and beautiful Style, 
besides having the merit of a warmer and more eloquent strain 
of writing, in some of his Sermons, than is commonly met with. 
Had Bishop Butler, in place of abstract philosophical essays, 
given us more Sermons in the strain of those two excellent ones 
which he has composed upon Self-deceit, and upon the character 
of Balaam, we should then have pointed him out as distinguished 
for that species of characteristical Sermons which I before recom- 
mended. 

Though the writings of the English divines are very proper 
to be read by such as are designed for the Church, I must 
caution them against making too much use of them, or trans- 
cribing large passages from them into the Sermons they com- 
pose. Such as once indulge themselves in this practice, will 
never have any fund of their own. Infinitely better it is, 
to venture into the pulpit with thoughts and expressions which 
have occurred to themselves, though of inferior beauty, than 
to disfigure their compositions by borrowed and ill-sorted or- 
naments, which, to a judicious eye, will be always in hazard 
of discovering their own poverty. When a Preacher sits down 
to write on any subject, never let him begin with seeking to 
consult all who have written on the same text or subject. This 
if he consult many, will throw perplexity and confusion into his 
ideas ; and, if he consults only one, will often warp him insen- 
sibly into his method, whether it be right or not. But let him 
begin with pondering the subject in his own thoughts ; let him 
endeavour to fetch materials from within ; to collect and arrange 
his ideas ; and form some sort of plan to himself; which it is 
always proper to put down in writing. Then, and not till then, 
he may inquire how others have treated the same subject. 
By this means, the method, and the leading thoughts in the 
Sermon, are likely to be his own. These thoughts he may im- 
prove by comparing them with the track of sentiments which 
others have pursued; some of their sense he may, without 
blame, incorporate into his composition ; retaining always 
his own words and style. This is fair assistance : all beyond 
is plagiarism. 

On the whole, never let the capital principle, with which we 
set out at first, be forgotten, to keep close in view the great 
end for which a Preacher mounts the Pulpit; even to infuse 



LECT. XXX.] OF THE PULPIT. 313 

good dispositions into his hearers, to persuade them to serve 
God, and to become better men. Let this always dwell on 
his mind when he is composing, and it will diffuse through 
his compositions that spirit which will render them at once 
esteemed and useful. The most useful Preacher is always the 
best, and will not fail of being esteemed so. Embellish truth 
only with a view to gain it the more full and free admission 
into your hearers' minds ; and your ornaments will, in that 
case, be simple, masculine, natural. The best applause, by 
far, which a Preacher can receive, arises from the serious and 
deep impressions which his discourse leaves on those who 
hear it. The finest encomium, perhaps, ever bestowed on a 
Preacher, was given by Louis XIV. to the eloquent Bishop 
of Clermont, Father Massillon, whom I before mentioned with 
so much praise. After hearing him preach at Versailles, he 
said to him " Father, I have heard many great Orators in this 
chapel ; I have been highly pleased with them ; but for you, 
whenever I hear you, I go away displeased with myself; for 
I see more of my own character." 



LECTURE XXX. 

critical examination of a sermon of bishop 
atterbury's. 

The last Lecture was employed in observations on the pecu- 
liar and distinguishing Characters of the Eloquence proper 
for the Pulpit. But as rules and directions, when delivered in 
the abstract, are never so useful as when they are illustrated 
by particular instances, it may, perhaps, be of some benefit 
to those who are designed for the Church, that I should analyse 
an English Sermon, and consider the matter of it, together with 
the manner. For this purpose I have chosen Bishop Atterbury 
as my example, who is deservedly accounted one of our most 
eloquent writers of Sermons, and whom I mentioned as such in 
the last Lecture. At the same time, he is more distinguished 
I for elegance and purity of expression, than for profoundness 
of thought. His style, though sometimes careless, is, upon the 
whole, neat and chaste ; and more beautiful than that of most 
writers of Sermons. In his sentiments he is not only rational, 
but pious and devotional, which is a great excellency. The 
Sermon which I have singled out, is that upon Praise and 
Thanksgiving, the first Sermon of the first Volume, which 
is reckoned one of his best. In examining it, it is necessary 
that I should use full liberty, and, together with the beauties, 



344 ANALYSIS OF A SERMON [LECT. XXX. 

point out any defects that occur to me in the matter, as well 
as in the Style. 

Psalm 1. 14. Offering unto God Thanksgiving. 

" Among the many excellencies of this pious collection of 
Hymns, for which so particular a value hath been set upon it 
by the Church of God in all ages, this is not the least, that 
the true price of duties is there justly stated : men are called off 
from resting in the outward show of religion, in ceremonies and 
ritual observances ; and taught, rather to practise (that which 
was shadowed out by these rites, and to which they are designed 
to lead) sound inward piety and virtue. 

" The several composers of these Hymns were Prophets ; 
persons, whose business it was not only to foretel events for the 
benefit of the Church in succeeding times, but to correct and re- 
form also what was amiss among that race of men, with whom 
they lived and conversed ; to preserve a foolish people from 
idolatry, and false worship; to rescue the law from corrupt 
glosses, and superstitious abuses; and to put men in mind 
of (what they are so willing to forget) that eternal and in- 
variable rule, which was before these positive duties, would con- 
tinue after them, and was to be observed, even then, in pre- 
ference to them. 

" The discharge, I say, of this part of the prophetic office 
taking up so much room in the book of Psalms ; this hath been 
one reason, among many others, why they have always been 
so highly esteemed ; because we are from hence furnished with 
a proper reply to the argument commonly made use of by un- 
believers, who look upon all revealed religions as pious frauds 
and impostures, on the account of the prejudices they have 
entertained in relation to that of the Jews ; the whole of which 
they first suppose to lie in external performances, and then 
easily persuade themselves, that God could never be the Author 
of such a mere piece of pageantry and empty formality; nor 
delight in a worship which consisted purely in a number of odd 
unaccountable ceremonies. Which objection of theirs, we 
should not be able thoroughly to answer, unless we could prove 
(chiefly out of the Psalms, and other parts of the prophetic 
writings) that the Jewish religion was somewhat more than 
bare outside and show ; and that inward purity, and the devotion 
of the heart, was a duty then, as well as now." 

This appears to me an excellent introduction. The thought 
on which it rests is solid and judicious; that in the book of 
Psalms, the attention of men is called to the moral and spiritual 
part of religion ; and the Jewish dispensation thereby vindicated 
from the suspicion of requiring nothing more from its votaries, 
than the observance of the external rites and ceremonies of the 
law. Such views of religion are proper to be often displayed ; 
and deserve to be insisted on, by all who wish to render preaching 



• 



LECT. XXX.J OE THE PJJLPIT. 345 

conducive to the great purpose of promoting righteousness and 
virtue. The Style, as far as we have gone, is not only free from 
faults, but elegant and happy. 

It is a great beauty in an Introduction, when it can be made 
to turn on some one thought, fully brought out and illustrated ; 
especially if that thought has a close connexion with the follow- 
ing discourse, and, at the same time, does not anticipate any 
thing that is afterwards to be introduced .in a more proper place. 
This Introduction of Atterbury's has all these advantages. The 
encomium which he makes on the strain of David's Psalms is 
not such as might as well have been prefixed to any other dis- 
course, the text of which, was taken from any of the Psalms. 
Had this been the case, the Introduction would have lost much 
of its beauty. We shall see from what follows how naturally 
'the introductory thought connects with his text, and how 
happily it ushers it in, 

" One great instance of this proof, we have in the words now 
before us : which are taken from a Psalm of Asaph, written on 
purpose to set out the weakness and worthlessness of external 
performances, when compared with more substantial and vital 
duties. To enforce which doctrine, God himself is brought in 
as delivering it. Hear, O my people, and I will speak : O Israel, 
and I will testify against thee : I am God, even thy God. The 
Preface is very solemn, and therefore what it ushers in, we may 
be sure is of no common importance. / will not reprove thee for 
thy sacrifices or thy burnt-offerings, to have been continually before 
me. That is, I will not so reprove thee for any failures in thy 
sacrifices and burnt-offerings, as if these were the only, or the 
chief things I required of thee. / will take no bullock out of thy 
house, nor he-goat out of thy folds ; I prescribed not sacrifices to 
thee for my own sake, because I needed them ; For every beast 
of the forest is mine, and the cattle on a thousand hills. Mine 
they are, and were, before I commanded thee to offer them to 
me ; so that, as it follows, If I were hungry, yet would I not tell 
thee ; for the world is mine and the fulness thereof But can ye 
be so gross and senseless, as to think me liable to hunger and 
thirst ? as to imagine that wants of that kind can touch me ? 
Will I eat the flesh of bulls, or drink the blood of goats ? — Thus 
doth, he expostulate severely with them, after the most graceful 
manner of the Eastern Poetry. The issue of which is a plain 
and full resolution of the case, in those few words of the text — 
Offer unto God thanksgiving. Would you do your homage the 
most agreeable way ? would you render the most acceptable 
of services ? offer unto God thanksgiving." 

It is often a difficult matter to illustrate gracefully the text of 
a Sermon from the context, and to point out the connexion 
between them. This is a part of the discourse which is apt to 
become dry and tedious, especially when pursued into a minute 
commentary. And therefore, except as far as such illustration 

B B 



346 ANALYSIS OF A SERMON [LECT. XXX. 

from the context is necessary for explaining the meaning, or in 
cases where it serves to give dignity and force to the text, I 
would advise that it be always treated with brevity. Sometimes 
it may be even wholly omitted, and the text assumed merely as 
an independent proposition, if the connexion with the context 
be obscure, and would require a laborious explanation. In the 
present case, the illustration from the context is singularly 
happy. The passage of the Psalm on which it is founded is noble 
and spirited, and connected in such a manner with the text, as 
to introduce it with a very striking emphasis. On the language 
I have little to observe, except that the phrase, one great instance 
of this proof, is a clumsy expression. It was sufficient to have 
said one great proof, or one great instance of this. In the same 
sentence, when he speaks of setting out the weakness and worth- 
lessness of external performances, we may observe that the word 
worthlessness, as it is now commonly used, signifies more than 
the deficiency of worth, which is all that the Author means. It 
generally imports, a considerable degree of badness or blame. 
It would be more proper, therefore, to say, the imperfection, or 
the insignificancy, of external performances. 

" The use I intend to make of these words, is, from hence to 
raise some thoughts about that very excellent and important 
duty of Praise and Thanksgiving, a subject not unfit to be 
discoursed of at this time ; whether we consider, either the 
more than ordinary coldness that appears of late in men's 
tempers towards the practice of this (or any other) part of a 
warm and affecting devotion ; the great occasion of setting aside 
this particular day in the calendar, some years ago ; or the new 
instances of mercy and goodness, which God hath lately been 
pleased to bestow upon us ; answering at last the many prayers 
and fastings, by which we have besought him so long for the 
establishment of their Majesties' Throne, and for the success of 
their arms ; and giving us in his good time, an opportunity of 
appearing before him in the more delightful part of our duty, 
with the voice of joy and praise, with a multitude that keep holidays? 

In this paragraph there is nothing remarkable ; no particular 
beauty or neatness of expression; and the Sentence which it 
forms is long and tiresome. — To raise some thoughts about that 
very excellent, &c, is rather loose and awkward; better — to 
recommend that very excellent, &c. ; and when he mentions setting 
aside a particular day in the calendar, one would imagine, that 
setting apart would have been more proper, as to set aside, seems 
rather to suggest a different idea. 

" Offer unto God thanksgiving. — Which that we may do, let 
us inquire first, how we are to understand this command of 
offering Praise and Thanksgiving unto God; and then how 
reasonable it is that we should comply with it." 

This is the general division of the discourse. An excellent 
one it is, and corresponds to many subjects of this kind, where 
particular duties are to be treated of; first to explain, and then 



LECT. XXX.] OF BISHOP ATTERBURY. 347 

to recommend or enforce them. A division should always be 
simple and natural ; and much depends on the proper view 
which it gives of the subject. 

" Our inquiry into what is meant here, will be very short ; 
for who is there, that understands any thing of religion, but 
knows, that the offering praise and thanks to God, implies, our 
having a lively and devout sense of his excellencies, and of his 
benefits ; our recollecting them with humility and thankfulness 
of heart ; and our expressing these inward affections by suitable 
outward signs, by reverent and lowly postures of body, by songs 
and hymns, and spiritual ejaculations; either publicly or pri- 
vately ; either in the customary and daily service of the Church, 
or in its more solemn assemblies, convened upon extraordinary 
occasions ? This is the account which every Christian easily 
gives himself of it ; and which therefore it would be needless 
to enlarge upon. I shall only take notice upon this head, that 
Praise and Thanksgiving do, in strictness of speech, signify 
things somewhat different. Our praise properly terminates in 
God, on account of his natural excellencies and perfections ; and 
is that act of devotion, by which we confess and admire his 
several attributes; but thanksgiving is a narrower duty, and 
imports only a grateful sense and acknowledgment of past 
mercies. We praise God for all his glorious acts of every kind 
that regard either us or other men ; for his very vengeance, and 
those judgments which he sometimes sends abroad in the earth ; 
but we thank him, properly speaking, for the instances of his 
goodness alone ; and for such only of these as we ourselves are 
someway concerned in. This, I say, is what the two words 
strictly imply ; but since the language of Scripture is generally 
less exact, and useth either of them often to express the other 
by, I shall not think myself obliged, in what follows, thus nicely 
always to distinguish them." 

There was room here for insisting more fully on the nature of 
the duty than the Author has done under this head ; in par- 
ticular, this was the place for correcting the mistake, to which 
men are always prone, of making Thanksgiving to consist 
merely in outward expressions ; and for showing them, that the 
essence of the duty lies in the inward feelings of the heart. 
In general, it is of much use to give full and distinct explica- 
tions of religious duties. But, as our Author intended only one 
discourse on the subject, he could not -enlarge with equal ful- 
ness on every part of it ; and he has chosen to dwell on that 
part on which indeed it is most necessary to enlarge, the motives 
enforcing the duty. For, as it is an easier matter to know, than 
to practise duty, the persuasive part of the discourse is that to 
which the Speaker should always bend his chief strength. The 
account given in this head of the nature of Praise and Thanks- 
giving, though short, is yet comprehensive and distinct, and the 
language is smooth and elegant. 

B B 2 



348 ANALYSIS OF A SERMON [LECT. XXX. 

Now the great reasonableness of this duty of Praise or Thanks- 
giving, and our several obligations to it, will appear, if we either 
consider it absolutely in itself, as the debt of our natures ; or 
compare it with other duties, and show the rank it bears among 
them ; or set out, in the last place, some of its peculiar pro- 
perties and advantages, with regard to the devout performer 
of it." 

The Author here enters upon the main part of his subject, 
the reasonableness of the duty, and mentions three arguments 
for proving it. These are well stated, and are in themselves 
proper and weighty considerations. How far he has handled 
each of them to advantage, will appear as we proceed. I cannot, 
however, but think that he has omitted one very material part 
of the argument, which was to have shown the obligations we 
are under to this duty, from the various subjects of Thanksgiving 
afforded us by the divine goodness. This would have led him 
to review the chief benefits of Creation, Providence, and 
Redemption : and certainly, they are these which lay the 
foundation of the whole argument for Thanksgiving. The 
heart must first be affected with a suitable sense of the divine 
benefits, before one can be excited to praise God. If you would 
persuade me to be thankful to a benefactor, you must not 
employ such considerations merely as those upon which the 
Author here rests, taken from gratitude's being, the law of my 
nature, or bearing a high rank among moral duties, or being 
attended with peculiar advantages. These are considerations 
but of a secondary nature. You must begin with setting before 
me all that my friend has done for me, if you mean to touch my 
heart, and to call forth the emotions of gratitude. The case is 
perfectly similar, when we are exhorted to give thanks to God ; 
and, therefore, in giving a full view of the subject, the blessings 
conferred on us by divine goodness should have been taken into 
the argument. 

It may be said, however, in apology for our Author, that this 
would have led him into too wide a field for one discourse, and 
into a field also, which is difficult, because so beaten, the enumera- 
tion of the divine benefits. He, therefore, seems to take it for 
granted, that we have upon our minds a just sense of these 
benefits. He assumes them as known and acknowledged ; and 
setting aside what may be called the pathetic part of the sub- 
ject, or what was calculated to warm the heart, he goes on to the 
reasoning part. In this management, I cannot altogether blame 
him. I do not by any means say, that it is necessary in every 
discourse to take in all that belongs to the doctrine of which we 
treat. Many a discourse is spoiled, by attempting to render it 
too copious and comprehensive. The Preacher may, without 
reprehension, take up any part of a great subject to which his 
genius at the time leads him, and make that his theme. But 
when he omits any thing which may be thought essential, he 



LECT. XXX.] OF BISHOP ATTERBURY. 349 

ought to give notice, that this is a part, which for the time he 
lays aside. Something of this sort would perhaps have been 
proper here. Our Author might have begun by saying, that 
the reasonableness of this duty must appear to every thinking 
being, who reflects upon the infinite obligations which are laid 
upon us, by creating, preserving, and redeeming love ; and after 
taking notice that the field which these open, was too wide for 
him to enter upon at that time, have proceeded to his other 
heads. Let us now consider these separately. 

" The duty of Praise and Thanksgiving, considered absolutely 
in itself) is, I say, the debt and law of our nature. We had 
such faculties bestowed on us by our Creator, as made us capa- 
ble of satisfying this debt, and obeying this law ; and they 
never, therefore, work more naturally and freely, than when 
they are thus employed. 

" 'Tis one of the earliest instructions given us by philosophy, 
and which hath ever since been approved and inculcated by the 
wisest men of all ages, that the original design of making man 
was, that he might praise and honour him who made him. 
When God had finished this goodly frame of things we call the 
world, and put tgether the several parts of it, according to his 
infinite wisdomj in exact number, weight and measure, there 
was still wanting a creature, in these lower regions, that could 
apprehend the beauty, order, and exquisite contrivance of it ; 
that from contemplating the gift, might be able to raise itself to 
the great Giver, and do honour to all his attributes. Every 
thing indeed that God made, did in some sense, glorify its 
Author, inasmuch as it carried upon it the plain mark and im- 
press of the Deity, and was an effect worthy of that first cause 
from whence it flowed ; and thus might the Heavens be said, at 
the first moment in which they stood forth, to declare his glory, and 
the firmament to show his handy-work : But this was an imperfect 
and defective glory ; the sign was of no signification here 
below, whilst there was no one here as yet to take notice of it. 
Man, therefore, was formed to supply this want, endowed with 
powers fit to find out, and to acknowledge these unlimited per- 
fections ; and then put into this Temple of God, this lower 
world, as the Priest of nature, to offer up the incense of Thanks 
and Praise for the mute and insensible part of the Creation. 

" This, I say, hath been the opinion all along of the most 
thoughtful men down from the most ancient times : and though 
it be not demonstrative, yet it is what we cannot but judge 
highly reasonable, if we do but allow, that man was made for 
some end or other ; and that he is capable of perceiving that 
end. For, then, let us search and enquire never so much, we 
shall find no other account of him that we can rest upon so well. 
If we say, that he was made purely for the good pleasure of God ; 
this is, in effect, to say, that he was made for no determinate 
end, or for none, at least, that we can discern. If we say, that 



350 ANALYSIS OF A SERMON [LECT. XXX. 

he was designed as an instance of the wisdom, and power, and 
goodness of God ; this, indeed, may be the reason of his being 
in general ; for 'tis the common reason of the being of every 
thing besides. But it gives no account, why he was made such 
a being as he is, a reflecting, thoughtful, inquisitive being. The 
particular reason of this seems most aptly to be drawn from the 
praise and honour that was (not only to redound to God from 
him, but) to be given to God by him." 

The thought which runs through all this passage, of man's 
being the Priest of Nature, and of his existence being calcu- 
lated chiefly for this end, that he might offer up the praises of 
the mute part of the creation, is an ingenious thought, and well 
illustrated. It was a favourite idea among some of the ancient 
philosophers ; and it is not the worse on that account, as it 
thereby appears to have been a natural sentiment of the human 
mind. In composing a Sermon, however, it might have been 
better to have introduced it as a sort of collateral argument, 
or an incidental illustration, than to have displayed it with so 
much pomp, and to have placed it in the front of the arguments 
for this duty. It does not seem to me, when placed in this 
station, to bear all the stress which the Author lays upon it. 
When the divine goodness brought man into existence, we can- 
not well conceive that its chief purpose was to form a being 
who might sing praises to his Maker. Prompted by infinite, 
benevolence, the Supreme Creator formed the human race, that 
they might rise to happiness, and to the enjoyment of himself, 
through a course of virtue, or proper action. The sentiment on 
which our Author dwells, however beautiful, appears too loose 
and rhetorical, to be a principal head of discourse. 

" This duty, therefore, is the debt and law of our nature. 
And it will more distinctly appear to be such, if we consider 
the two ruling faculties of our mind, the Understanding and the 
Will apart, in both which it is deeply founded : in the Under- 
standing, as in the principle of Reason, which owns and acknow- 
ledges it ; in the Will, as in the fountain of gratitude and 
return, which prompts, and even constrains us to pay it. 

" Reason was given us as a rule and measure, by the help of 
which we were to proportion our esteem of every thing, accord- 
ing to the degrees of perfection and goodness which we found 
therein. It cannot, therefore, if it doth its office at all, but 
apprehend God as the best and most perfect being; it must 
needs see, and own, and admire his infinite perfections. And 
this is what is strictly meant by praise : which, therefore, is ex- 
pressed in Scripture, by confessing to God, and acknowledging 
him ; by ascribing to him what is his due ; and as far as this 
sense of the word reaches, 'tis impossible to think of God with- 
out praising him : for it depends not on the understanding, how 
it shall apprehend things, any more than it doth on the eye, 
how visible objects shall appear to it. 



LECT. XXX.] OF BISHOP ATTERBURY. 351 

" The duty takes the further and surer hold of us, by the 
means of the will, and that strong bent towards gratitude, 
which the author of our nature hath implanted in it. There 
is not a more active principle than this in the mind of man ; 
and surely that which deserves its utmost force, and should set 
all its springs a-work, is God ; the great and universal Benefac- 
tor, from whom alone we received whatever we either have, or 
are, and to whom we can possibly repay nothing but our Praises, 
or (to speak more properly on this head, and according to the 
strict import of the word) our Thanksgiving. Who hath first 
given to God (saith the great Apostle in his usual figure) and it 
shall be recompensed unto him again ? A gift, it seems, always 
requires a recompence : nay, but of him, and through him, and to 
him, are all things : of him, as the Author ; through him, as the 
Preserver, and Governor ; to him, as the end and perfection of 
all things: to whom therefore, (as it follows,) be glory for ever, 
Amen!" 

I cannot much approve of the light in which our Author 
places his argument in these paragraphs. There is something 
too metaphysical and refined, in his deducing, in this manner, 
the obligation to thanksgiving, from the two faculties of the 
mind, Understanding and Will. Though what he says be in it- 
self just, yet the argument is not sufficiently plain and striking. 
Arguments in Sermons, especially on subjects that so naturally 
and easily suggest them, should be palpable and popular ; should 
not be brought from topics that appear far sought, but should 
directly address the heart and feelings. The Preacher ought 
never to depart too far from the common ways of thinking, and 
expressing himself. I am inclined to think, that this whole 
head might have been improved, if the Author had taken up 
more obvious ground ; had stated Gratitude as one of the most 
natural principles in the human heart ; had illustrated this, by 
showing how odious the opposite disposition is, and with what 
general consent men, in all ages, have agreed in hating and con- 
demning the ungrateful ; and then applying these reasonings to 
the present case, had placed in a strong view, that entire cor- 
ruption of moral sentiment which it discovers, to be destitute of 
thankful emotions towards the Supreme Benefactor of mankind. 
As the most natural method of giving vent to grateful senti- 
ments is, by external expressions of thanksgiving, he might then 
have answered the objection that is apt to occur, of the expres- 
sion of our praise being insignificant to the Almighty. But, by 
seeking to be too refined in his argument, he has omitted some 
of the most striking and obvious considerations, and which, pro- 
perly displayed, would have afforded as great a field for Elo- 
quence, as the topics which he has chosen. He goes on. 

" Gratitude consists in an equal return of benefits, if we are 
able : of thanks, if we are not : which thanks^ therefore, must 
rise always in proportion as the favours received are great, and 



352 ANALYSIS OF A SERMON [LECT. XXX. 

the receiver incapable of making any other sort of requital. 
Now, since no man hath benefited God at any time, and yet 
every man, in each moment of his life, is continually benefited 
by him, what strong obligations must we needs be under to 
thank him ? 'Tis true, our thanks are really as insignificant to 
him, as any other kind of return would be ; in themselves, 
indeed, they are worthless ; but his goodness hath put a value 
upon them : he hath declared, he will accept them in lieu of the 
vast debt we owe ; and after that, which is fittest for us, to dis- 
pute how they came to be taken as an equivalent, or to pay 
them? 

" It is, therefore, the voice of nature, (as far as gratitude it- 
self is so), that the good things we receive from above should 
be sent back again thither in thanks and praises ; as the rivers 
run into the sea, to the place, (the ocean of beneficence) from 
whence the rivers come, thither should they return again? 

In these paragraphs, he has, indeed, touched some of the 
considerations which I mentioned. But he has only touched 
them ; whereas, with advantage, they might have formed the 
main body of his argument. 

" We have considered the duty absolutely ; we are now to 
compare it with others, and to see what rank it bears among 
them. And here we shall find, that, among all the acts of 
religion immediately addressed to God, this is much the noblest 
and most excellent ; as it must needs be, if what hath been laid 
down be allowed, that the end of man's creation was to praise 
and glorify God. For that cannot but be the most noble and 
excellent act of any being, which best answers the end and 
design of it. Other parts of devotion, such as confession and 
prayer, seem not originally to have been designed for man, nor 
man for them. They imply guilt and want, with which the 
state of innocence was not acquainted. Had man continued in 
that estate, his worship (like the devotions of angels) had been 
paid to Heaven in pure acts of thanksgiving ; and nothing had 
been left for him to do, beyond the enjoying the good things 
of life, as nature directed, and praising the God of nature 
who bestowed them. But being fallen from innocence and 
abundance ; having contracted guilt, and forfeited his right to 
all sorts of mercies ; prayer and confession became necessary, 
for a time, to retrieve the loss, and to restore him to that state 
wherein he should be able to live without them. These are 
fitted, therefore, for a lower dispensation; before which, in 
paradise, there was nothing but praise, and after which, there 
shall be nothing but that in Heaven. Our perfect state did at 
first, and will at last, consist in the performance of this duty ; 
and herein, therefore, lies the excellence and the honour of our 
nature. 

" 'Tis the same way of reasoning, by which the Apostle 
hath given the preference to charity, beyond faith, and hope, 



LECT. XXX.] OF BISHOP ATTEKBURY. 353 

and every spiritual gift. Charity never faileth, saith he ; mean- 
ing that it is not a virtue useful only in this life ; but will 
accompany us also into the next : but whether there be prophecies, 
they shall fail : whether there be tongues, they shall cease : whether 
there be knowledge, it shall vanish away. These are gifts of a 
temporary advantage, and shall all perish in the using. For we 
know in part, and we prophecy in part : our present state is im- 
perfect, and therefore, what belongs to that, and only that, must 
be imperfect too. But when that which is perfect is come, then 
that which is in part shall be done away. The argument of St. 
Paul, we see, which sets charity above the rest of Christian 
graces, will give praise also the pre-eminence over all the parts 
of Christian worship ; and we may conclude our reasoning, 
therefore, as he doth his; And now abideth confession, prayer, 
and praise, these three ; but the greatest of these is praise." 

The Author here enters on the second part of his argument, 
the high rank which thanksgiving holds, when compared with 
other duties of religion. This he handles with much eloquence 
and beauty. His idea, that this was the original worship of 
man before his fall rendered other duties requisite, and shall 
continue to be his worship in Heaven, when the duties which 
are occasioned by a consciousness of guilt shall have no place, 
is solid and just ; his illustration of it is very happy ; and the 
style extremely flowing and sweet. Seldom do we meet with 
any piece of composition in Sermons, that has more merit 
than this head. 

" It is so, certainly, on other accounts, as well as this ; parti- 
cularly, as it is the most disinterested branch of our religious 
service ; such as hath the most of God, and the least of our- 
selves in it, of any we pay ; and therefore approaches the nearest 
of any to a pure, and free, and perfect act of homage. For 
though a good action doth net groAv immediately worthless by 
being done with the prospect of advantage, as some have 
strangely imagined ; yet it will be allowed, I suppose, that its 
being done, without the mixture of that end, or with as little of 
it as possible, recommends it so much the more, and raises the 
price of it. Doth Job fear God for nought? was an objection 
of Satan; which implied that those duties w r ere most valuable, 
where our own interest was least aimed at : and God seems, by 
the commission he then gave Satan, to try experiments upon 
Job, thus far to have allowed his plea. Now, our requests for 
future, and even our acknowledgments for past mercies, centre 
purely in ourselves ; our own interest is the direct aim of 
them. But praise is a generous and unmercenary principle, 
which proposes no other end to itself, but to do, as is fit for a 
creature endowed with such faculties to do towards the most 
perfect and beneficent of beings ; and to pay the willing tribute 
of honour there, where the voice of Eeason directs us to pay it. 
God hath, indeed, annexed a blessing to the duty ; and when we 



354 ANALYSIS OP A SERMON [LECT. XXX. 

know this, we cannot choose, while we are performing the duty, 
but have some regard to the blessing which belongs to it. 
However, that is not the direct aim of our devotions, nor was it 
the first motive that stirred us up to them, Had it been so, we 
should naturally have betaken ourselves to Prayer, and breathed 
out our desires in that form wherein they are most properly 
conveyed. 

" In short, Praise is our most excellent work, a work com- 
mon to the church triumphant and militant, and which lifts 
us up into communion and fellowship with Angels. The 
matter about which it is conversant, is always the perfec- 
tion of God's nature; and the act itself, is the perfection of 
ours." 

Our Author's second illustration is taken from praise being 
the most disinterested act of homage. This he explains justly 
and elegantly; though, perhaps, the consideration is rather 
too thin and refined for enforcing religious duties: as crea- 
tures, such as we, in approaching to the divine presence, can 
never be supposed to lay aside all consideration of our own 
wants and necessities ; and certainly are not required (as the 
Author admits) to divest ourselves of such regards. The 
concluding Sentence of this head is elegant and happily ex- 
pressed. 

" I come now in the last place, to set out some of its peculiar 
properties and advantages, which recommend it to the devout 
performer. And, 

" 1. It is the most pleasing part of our devotions : it proceeds 
always from a lively cheerful temper of mind, and it cherishes 
and improves what it proceeds from. For it is good to sing 
praises unto our God (says one whose experience, in this case, 
we may rely upon), for it is pleasant, and praise is comely. Pe- 
tition and confession are the language of the indigent and the 
guilty, the breathings of a sad and contrite spirit : Is any af- 
flicted ? let him pray ; but, Is any merry ? let him sing psalms. 
The most usual and natural way of men's expressing the mirth 
of their hearts is in a song, and songs are the very language of 
praise ; to the expressing of which they are in a peculiar manner 
appropriated, and are scarce of any other use in Religion. In- 
deed, the whole composition of this duty is such, as throughout 
speaks ease and delight to the mind. It proceeds from Love, 
and from Thankfulness; from Love, the fountain of pleasure, 
the passion which gives every thing we do, or enjoy, its relish 
and agreeableness. From Thankfulness, which involves in it 
the memory of past benefits, the actual presence of them to the 
mind, and the repeated enjoyment of them. And as is its 
principle, such is its end also ; for it procureth quiet and ease to 
the mind, by doing somewhat towards satisfying that debt which 
it labours under; by delivering it of those thoughts of praise 
and gratitude, those exultations it is so full of; and which 



: 



ECT. XXX.] OF BISHOP ATTERBUKY. 355 

ould grow uneasy and troublesome to it, if they were 
kept in. If the thankful refrained, it would be pain and 
grief to them ; but then, then is their soul satisfied as with 
marrow and fatness, when their mouth praiseth God with joyful 
lips:' 

In beginning this head of discourse, the expression which the 
Author uses, to set out some of its peculiar properties and advan- 
tages, would now be reckoned not so proper an expression, as to 
point out, or to show. The first subdivision concerning praise 
being the most pleasant part of devotion, is very just and well 
expressed, as far as it goes ; but seems to me rather defective. 
Much more might have been said, upon the pleasure that 
accompanies such exalted acts of devotion. It was a cold 
thought, to dwell upon its disburdening the mind of a debt. 
The Author should have insisted more upon the influence of 
Praise and Thanksgiving, in warming, gladdening, soothing 
the mind ; lifting it above the world, to dwell among divine and 
eternal objects. He should have described the peace and joy 
which then expand the heart ; the relief which this exercise 
procures from the cares and agitations of life; the en- 
couraging views of Providence to which it leads our atten- 
tion; and the trust which it promotes in the divine mercy 
for the future, by the commemoration of benefits past. In 
short, this was the place for his pouring out a greater flow of 
devotional sentiments than what we here find. 

" 2. It is another distinguishing property of divine praise, 
that it enlargeth the powers and capacities of our souls, turning 
them from low and little things, upon their greatest and noblest 
object, the divine nature, and employing them in the discovery 
and admiration of those several perfections that adorn it. We 
see what difference there is between man and man, such as there 
is hardly greater between man and beast : and this proceeds 
chiefly from the different sphere of thought which they act in, 
and the different objects they converse with. The mind is 
essentially the same in the peasant and the prince; the force of 
it naturally equal, in the untaught man, and the philosopher ; 
only the one of these is busied in mean affairs, and within 
narrower bounds; the other exercises himself in things of 
weight and moment ; and this it is, that puts the wide distance 
between them.- Noble objects are to the mind, what the 
sun-beams are to a bud or flower ; they open and unfold, 
1 as it were, the leaves of it ; put it upon exerting and 
I spreading itself every way ; and call forth all those powers 
that lie hid and locked up in it. The praise and admiration 
of God, therefore, brings this advantage along with it, that 
it sets our faculties upon their full stretch, and improves 
them to all the degrees of perfection of which they are 
capable." 

This head is just, well expressed, and to censure it might 



356 ANALYSIS OF A SERMON [LECT. XXX. 

appear hypercritical. Some of the expressions, however, one 
would think, might be amended. The simile, for instance, about 
the effects of the sunbeams upon the bud or flower, is pretty, but 
not correctly expressed. They open and unfold, as it were, the 
leaves of it. If this is to be literally applied to the flower, the 
phrase, as it were, is needless ; if it is to be metaphorically under- 
stood (which appears to be the case), the leaves of the mind, is 
harsh language ; besides that, put it upon exerting itself, is rather 
a low expression. Nothing is more nice, than to manage pro- 
perly such similes and allusions, so as to preserve them perfectly 
correct, and at the same time to render the image lively: it 
might perhaps be amended in some such way as this : " As the 
sunbeams open the bud, and unfold the leaves of a flower, noble 
objects have a like effect upon the mind : they expand and spread 
it, and call forth those powers that before lay hid and locked up 
in the soul." 

" 3. It farther promotes in us an exquisite sense of God's 
honour, and a high indignation of mind at every thing that 
openly profanes it. For what we value and delight in, we can- 
not with patience hear slighted or abused. Our own praises, 
which we are constantly putting up, will be a spur to us towards 
procuring and promoting the divine glory in every other in- 
stance ; and will make us set our faces against all open and 
avowed impieties ; which, methinks, should be considered a little 
by such as would be thought not to be wanting in this duty, and 
yet are often silent under the foulest dishonours done to Religion, 
and its great Author : for tamely to hear God's name and worship 
vilified by others, is no very good argument that we have been 
used to honour and reverence him, in good earnest, ourselves." 

The thought here is well-founded, though it is carelessly and 
loosely brought out. The Sentence, our own praises, which we 
are constantly putting up, will be a spur to us toward procuring 
and promoting the divine glory in every other instance, is both 
negligent in language, and ambiguous in meaning ; for our own 
praises, properly signifies the praises of ourselves. Much better 
if he had said, " Those devout praises which we constantly offer 
up to the Almighty, will naturally prompt us to promote the 
divine glory in every other instance." 

" 4. It will, beyond all this, work in us a deep humility and con- 
sciousness of our own imperfections. Upon a frequent attention 
to God and his attributes, we shall easily discover our own weak- 
ness and emptiness; our swelling thoughts of ourselves will 
abate, and we shall see and feel that we are altogether lighter to 
be laid in the balance than vanity ; and this is a lesson which, to 
the greatest part of mankind, is, I think, very well worth learn- 
ing. We are naturally presumptuous and vain; full of our- 
selves, and regardless of every thing besides, especially when 
some little outward privileges distinguish us from the rest of 
mankind ; then, 'tis odds, but we look into ourselves with great 



LECT. XXX.] OF BISHOP ATTEEBURY. 357 

degrees of complacency, and are wiser (and better every way) in 
our own conceit, than seven men that can render a reason. Now, 
nothing will contribute so much to the cure of this vanity, as a 
due attention to God's excellencies and perfections. By com- 
paring these with those which we imagine belong to us, we shall 
learn, not to think more highly of ourselves than we ought to think of 
ourselves,but to think soberly ; we shall find more satisfaction in look- 
ing upwards, and humbling ourselves before our common Creator, 
than in casting our eyes downwards with scorn upon our fellow- 
creatures, and setting at naught any part of the work of his 
hands. The vast distance we are at from real and infinite Worth, 
will astonish us so much, that we shall not be tempted to value 
ourselves upon these lesser degrees of pre-eminence, which cus- 
tom or opinion, or some little accidental advantages, have given 
us over other men." 

Though the thought here also be just, yet a like deficiency in 
elegance and beauty appears. The phrase, His odds but we look 
into ourselves with great degrees of complacency, is much too low 
and colloquial for a Sermon ; — he might have said, we are likely, 
or we are prone to look into ourselves. — Comparing these with 
those which we imagine belong to ourselves, is also very careless 
Style. — By comparing these with the virtues and abilities which we 
ascribe to ourselves, we shall learn — would have been purer and 
more correct. 

"5. I shall mention but one use of it more, and 'tis this; 
that a conscientious praise of God will keep us back from all 
false and mean praise, all fulsome and servile flatteries, such as 
are in use among men. Praising, as 'tis commonly managed, is 
nothing else but a trial of skill upon a man, how many good 
things we can possibly say of him. All the treasures of Oratory 
are ransacked, and all the fine things that ever were said, are 
heaped together for his sake ; and no matter whether it belongs 
to him or not, so there be but enough on't. Which is one 
deplorable instance, among a thousand, of the baseness of human 
nature, of its small regard to truth and justice; to right or 
wrong ; to what is or is not to be praised. But he who hath a 
deep sense of the excellencies of God upon his heart, will make 
a God of nothing besides. He will give every one his just 
encomium, honour where honour is due, and as much as is due, 
because it is his duty to do so ; but the honour of God will 
suffer him to go no further. Which rule, if it had been observed, 
a neighbouring prince (which now, God be thanked, needs 
flattery a great deal more than ever he did) would have wanted 
a great deal of that incense which hath been offered up to him 
by his adorers." 

This head appears scarcely to deserve any place among the 
more important topics that naturally presented themselves on 
this subject ; at least, it had much better have wanted the appli- 
cation which the Author makes of his reasoning to the flatterers 



358 ANALYSIS OF A SERMON [LECT. XXX. 

of Louis XIV. ; and the thanks which he offers to God, for the 
affairs of that prince being in so low a state, that he now needed 
flattery more than ever. This political Satire is altogether out 
of place, and unworthy of the subject. 

One would be inclined to think, upon reviewing our Author's 
arguments, that he has overlooked some topics, respecting the 
happy consequences of this duty, of fully as much importance 
as any that he has inserted. Particularly, he ought not to have 
omitted the happy tendency of praise and thanksgiving, to 
strengthen good dispositions in the heart ; to promote love to 
God, and imitation of those perfections which we adore ; and to 
infuse a spirit of ardour and zeal into the whole of religion, as 
the service of our benefactor. These are consequences which 
naturally follow from the proper performance of this duty ; and 
which ought not to have been omitted, as no opportunity should 
be lost, of showing the good effect of devotion on practical re- 
ligion and moral virtue ; and pointing out the necessary connec- 
tion of the one with the other. For certainly the great end of 
preaching is, to make men better in all the relations of life, and 
to promote that complete reformation of heart and conduct, in 
which true Christianity consists. Our Author, however, upon 
the whole, is not deficient in such views of religion ; for, in his 
general strain of preaching, as he is extremely pious, so he is, at 
the same time, practical and moral. 

His summing up of the whole argument, in the next paragraph, 
is elegant and beautiful ; and such concluding views of the sub- 
ject are frequently very proper and useful : " Upon these 
grounds doth the duty of praise stand, and these are the obli- 
gations that bind us to the performance of it. 'T is the end of 
our being, and the very rule and law of our nature; flowing 
from the two great fountains of human action, the understand- 
ing and the will, naturally, and almost necessarily. It is the 
most excellent part of our religious worship ; enduring to eter- 
nity, after the rest shall be done away ; and paid, even now, in 
the frankest manner, with the least regard to our own interest. 
It recommends itself to us by several peculiar properties and 
advantages ; as it carries more pleasure in it, than all other kinds 
of devotion ; as it enlarges and exalts the several powers of the 
mind ; as it breeds in us an exquisite sense of God's honour, and 
a willingness to promote it in the world ; as it teaches us to be 
humble and lowly ourselves, and yet preserves us from base and 
sordid flattery, from bestowing mean and undue praises upon 
others." 

After this, our Author addresses himself to two classes of 
men, the Careless and Profane. His address to the Careless is 
beautiful and pathetic ; that to the Profane is not so well ex- 
ecuted, and is liable to some objection. Such addresses appear 
to me to be, on several occasions, very useful parts of a discourse. 
They prevailed much in the strain of preaching before the Eesto- 



LECT. XXXI.] .OF BISHOP ATTERBURY. 359 

ration; and, perhaps, since that period, have been too much 
neglected. They afford an opportunity of bringing home to the 
consciences of the audience, many things, which, in the course 
of the Sermon, were, perhaps, delivered in the abstract. 

I shall not dwell on the Conclusion of the Sermon, which is 
chiefly employed in observations on the posture of public affairs 
at that time. Considered upon the whole, this Discourse of 
Bishop Atterbury's is both useful and beautiful, though I have 
ventured to point out some defects in it. Seldom or never, can 
we expect to meet with a composition of any kind, which is 
absolutely perfect in all its parts : and when we take into ac- 
count the difficulties which I before showed to attend the Elo- 
quence of the Pulpit, we have, perhaps, less reason to look for 
perfectioD in a Sermon, than in any other composition. 



LECTUKE XXXI. 

CONDUCT OF A DISCOURSE IX ALL ITS PARTS— INTRODUCTION 
— DIVISION — NARRATION AND EXPLICATION. 

I have, in the four preceding Lectures, considered what is 
peculiar to each of the three great fields of Public Speaking, 
Popular Assemblies, the Bar, and the Pulpit. I am now to 
treat of what is common to them all ; of the conduct of a Dis- 
course or Oration, in general. The previous view which I have 
given of the distinguishing spirit and character of different kinds 
of Public Speaking, was necessary for the proper application of 
the rules which I am about to deliver ; and as I proceed, I shall 
farther point out, how far any of these rules may have a par- 
ticular respect to the Bar, to the Pulpit, or to Popular Courts. 

On whatever subject any one intends to discourse, he will 
most commonly begin with some Introduction, in order to 
prepare the minds of his hearers ; he will then state his subject, 
and explain the facts connected with it; he will employ argu- 
ments for establishing his own opinion, and overthrowing that 
of his antagonist : he may perhaps, if there be room for it, 
endeavour to touch the passions of his Audience; and after 
having said all he thinks proper, he will bring his Discourse to a 
close, by some Peroration or Conclusion. This being the 
natural train of Speaking, the parts that compose a regular 
formal Oration, are these six; first, the Exordium or Introduc- 
tion; secondly, the State, and the Division of the Subject; 
thirdly, Narration or Explication ; fourthly, the Reasoning or 
Arguments; fifthly, the Pathetic Part; and lastly, the Con- 



360 INTRODUCTION [LECT. XXXI. 

elusion. I do not mean, that each of these must enter into 
every Public Discourse, or that they must enter always in this 
order. There is no reason for being so formal on every occasion ; 
nay, it would often be a fault, and would render a Discourse 
pedantic and stiff. There may be maay excellent Discourses in 
public, where several of these parts are altogether wanting ; 
where the Speaker, for instance, uses no Introduction, but 
enters directly on his subject ; where he has no occasion either 
to divide or explain; but simply reasons on one side of the 
question, and then finishes. But as the parts, which I have 
mentioned, are the natural constituent parts of a regular Ora- 
tion ; and as in every Discourse whatever, some of them must 
be found, it is necessary to our present purpose, that I should 
treat of each of them distinctly. 

I begin, of course, with the Exordium or Introduction. This 
is manifestly common to all the three kinds of Public Speaking. 
It is not a rhetorical invention. It is founded upon nature, and 
suggested by common sense. When one is going to counsel 
another ; when he takes upon him to instruct, or to reprove, 
prudence will generally direct him not to do it abruptly, but to 
use some preparation ; to begin with somewhat that may incline 
the persons, to whom he addresses himself, to judge favourably 
of what he is about to say ; and may dispose them to such a train 
of thought, as will forward and assist the purpose which he has 
in view. This is, or ought to be, the main scope of an Introduc- 
tion. Accordingly Cicero and Quinctilian mention three ends, 
to one or other of which it should be subservient, "Beddere 
auditores benevolos, attentos, dociles." 

First, To conciliate the good-will of the hearers ; to render 
them benevolent, or well-affected to the Speaker and to the 
subject. Topics for this purpose may, in Causes at the Bar, be 
sometimes taken from the particular situation of the Speaker 
himself, or of his client, or from the character or behaviour of 
his antagonists contrasted with his own; on other occasions, 
from the nature of the subject, as closely connected with the 
interest of the hearers ; and, in general, from the modesty and 
good intention with which the Speaker enters upon his subject. 
The second end of an Introduction, is, to raise the attention of 
the hearers ; which may be effected, by giving them some hints 
of the importance, dignity, or novelty of the subject ; or some 
favourable view of the clearness and precision with which we 
are to treat it ; and of the brevity with which we are to discourse. 
The third end is to render the hearers docile, or open to per- 
suasion ; for which end we must begin with studying to remove 
any particular prepossessions they may have contracted against 
the cause, or side of the argument which we espouse. 

Some one of these ends should be proposed by every Intro- 
duction. When there is no occasion for aiming at any of them ; 
when we are already secure of the good-will, the attention, and 



LECT. XXXI.] OF A DISCOURSE. 361 

the docility of the Audience, as may often be the case, formal 
Introductions may, without any prejudice, be omitted. And, 
indeed, when they serve for no purpose but mere ostentation, 
they had for the most part, better be omitted ; unless as far as 
respect to the Audience makes it decent, that a Speaker should 
not break in upon them too abruptly, but by a short Exordium 
prepare them for what he is going to say. Demosthenes 's 
Introductions are always short and simple ; Cicero's are fuller 
and more artful. 

The ancient Critics distinguish two kinds of Introductions, 
which they call " Principium," and " Insinuatio." "Princi- 
pium " is, where the Orator plainly and directly professes his 
aim in speaking. " Insinuatio " is, where a larger compass must 
be taken ; and where, presuming the disposition of the Audience 
to be much against the Orator, he must gradually reconcile 
them to hearing him, before he plainly discovers the point which 
he has in view. 

Of this latter sort of Introduction, we have an admirable 
instance in Cicero's second Oration against Rullus. This 
Rullus was tribune of the People, and had proposed an Agrarian 
Law ; the purpose of which was to create a Decemvirate, or ten 
Commissioners, with absolute power for five years over all the 
lands conquered by the Republic, in order to divide them 
among the citizens. Such laws had often been proposed by 
factious magistrates, and were always greedily received by the 
people. Cicero is speaking to the people ; he had newly been 
made Consul by their interest ; and his first attempt is to make 
them reject this law. The subject was extremely delicate, and 
required much art. He begins with acknowledging all the 
favours which he had received from the people, in preference to 
the nobility. He professes himself the creature of their power, 
and of all men the most engaged to promote their interest. He 
declares, that he held himself to be the Consul of the People ; 
and that he would always glory in preserving the character of a 
popular magistrate. But to be popular, he observes, is an 
ambiguous word. He understood it to import, a steady attach- 
ment to the real interest of the people, to their liberty, their 
ease, and their peace ; but by some, he saw, it was abused, and 
made a cover to their own selfish and ambitious designs. In 
this manner, he begins to draw gradually nearer to his purpose 
of attacking the proposal of Rullus, but still with great manage- 
ment and reserve. He protests, that he is far from being an 
enemy to Agrarian Laws ; he gives the highest praises to the 
Gracchi, those zealous patrons of the people ; and assures them, 
that when he first heard of Rullus's Law, he had resolved to 
support it, if he found it for their interest; but that, upon 
examining it, he found it calculated to establish a dominion that 
was inconsistent with liberty, and to aggrandise a few men at 
the expense of the public ; and then terminates his Exordium, 

c c 



362 INTRODUCTION [LECT. XXXI. 

with telling them, that he is going to give his reasons for being 
of this opinion : but that if his reasons shall not satisfy them, 
he will give up his own opinion, and embrace theirs. In all 
this, there was great art. His Eloquence produced the intended 
effect ; and the people, with one voice, rejected this Agrarian 
Law. 

Having given these general views of the nature and end of 
an Introduction, I proceed to lay down some rules for the proper 
composition of it. These are the more necessary, as this is a 
part of the Discourse which requires no small care. It is 
always of importance to begin well; to make a favourable 
impression at first setting out ; when the minds of the hearers, 
vacant as yet and free, are most disposed to receive any impres- 
sion easily. I must add, too, that a good Introduction is often 
found to be extremely difficult. Few parts of the Discourse 
give the Composer more trouble, or are attended with more 
nicety in the execution. 

The first rule is, That the Introduction should be easy and 
natural. The subject must always suggest it. It must appear 
as Cicero beautifully expresses it, "Effloruisse penitus ex re de 
qua turn agitur."* It is too common a fault in Introductions, 
that they are taken from some common-place topic, which has 
no peculiar relation to the subject in hand ; by which means 
they stand apart, like pieces detached from the rest of the Dis- 
course. Of this kind are Sallust's Introductions, prefixed to his 
Catilinarian and Jugurthine wars. They might as well have 
been Introductions to any other History, or to any other Treatise 
whatever ; and, therefore, though elegant in themselves, they 
must be considered as blemishes in the work, from want of due 
connexion with it. Cicero, though abundantly correct in this 
particular in his Orations, yet is not so in his other works. It 
appears from a letter of his to Atticus (L. xvi. 6), that it was 
his custom to prepare, at his leisure, a collection of different 
Introductions or Prefaces, ready to be prefixed to any work that 
he might afterwards publish. In consequence of this strange 
method of composing, it happened to him, to employ the same 
Introduction twice without remembering it ; prefixing it to two 
different "works. Upon Atticus informing him of this, he 
acknowledges the mistake, and sends him a new Introduction. 

In order to render Introductions natural and easy, it is, in my i 
opinion, a good rule that they should not be planned, till after 
one has meditated in his own mind the substance of his Dis- 
course. Then, and not till then, he should begin to think of 
some proper and natural Introduction. By taking a contrary 
course, and labouring in the first place on an Introduction, every 
one who is accustomed to composition will often find, that either 
he is led to lay hold of some common-place topic, or that, in- 

* " To hf>ve sprung up, of its own accord, from the matter which is under con- 
sideration." 






LECT. XXXI.] OF A DISCOUESE. 363 

stead of the Introduction being accommodated to the Discourse, 
he is obliged to accommodate the whole Discourse to the intro- 
duction which he had previously written. Cicero makes this 
remark ; though, as we have seen, his practice was not always 
conformable to his own rule. " Omnibus rebus consideratis, 
turn denique id quod primum est dicendum, postremum soleo 
cogitare, quo utar exordio. Nam si quando id primum invenire 
volui, nullum mihi occur rit, nisi aut exile, aut nugatorium, aut 
vulgare." # After the mind has been once warmed and put in 
train, by close meditation on the subject, materials for the Pre- 
face will then suggest themselves much more readily. 

In the second place, In an Introduction, correctness should be 
carefully studied in the expression. This is requisite, on account 
of the situation of the hearers. They are then more disposed 
to criticise than at any other period ; they are, as yet, unoccu- 
pied with the subject or the arguments ; their attention is wholly 
directed to the Speaker's style and manner. Something must 
be done, therefore, to prepossess them in his favour ; though for 
the same reasons, too much art must be avoided ; for it will be 
more easily detected at that time than afterwards ; and will dero- 
gate from persuasion in all that follows. A correct plainness, 
and elegant simplicity, is the proper character of an Introduc- 
tion ; "ut videamur," says Quinctilian, "accurate non callide 
dicere." 

In the third place, Modesty is another character which it 
must carry. All appearances of modesty are favourable, and 
prepossessing. If the Orator set out with an air of arrogance 
and ostentation, the self-love and pride of the hearers will be 
presently awakened, and will follow him with a very suspicious 
eye throughout all his progress. His modesty should discover 
itself not only in his expressions at the beginning, but in his 
whole manner ; in his looks, in his gestures, in the tone of his 
voice. Every auditory take in good part those marks of respect 
and awe, which are paid to them by one who addresses them. 
Indeed the modesty of an Introduction should never betray any 
thing mean or abject. It is always of great use to an Orator, 
that together with modesty and deference to his hearers, he 
should show a certain sense of dignity, arising from a persuasion 
of the justice or importance of the subject on which he is to 
speak. 

The modesty of an Introduction requires, that it promise not 
too much. " Non fumum ex fulgore, sed ex fumo dare lucem."f 

* " When T have planned and digested all the materials of mv Discourse, it is my 
custom to think, in the last place, of the Introduction with which I am to begin. For 
if at any time I have endeavoured to invent an Introduction first, nothing has ever 
occurred to me for that purpose, but what was trifling, nugatory, and vulgar." 
t He does not lavish at a blaze his fire, 

Sudden to glare, and then in smoke expire ; 
But rises from a cloud of smoke to light, 
And pours his specious miracles to sight. 

Hor. Ars Poet. Francis. 

c c 2 



364 INTRODUCTION [LECT. XXXI. 

This certainly is the general rule that an orator should not put 
forth all his strength at the beginning, but should rise and grow 
upon us, as his Discourse advances. There are cases however, in 
which it is allowable for him to set out from the first in a high 
and bold tone ; as, for instance, when he rises to defend some 
cause which has been run down, and decried by the Public. 
Too modest a beginning might be then like a confession of guilt. 
By the boldness and strength of his Exordium he must en- 
deavour to stem the tide that is against him, and to remove pre- 
judices, by encountering them without fear. In subjects, too, of 
a declamatory nature, and in Sermons, where the subject is 
striking, a magnificent Introduction has sometimes a good effect, 
if it be properly supported in the sequel. Thus Bishop Atter- 
bury, in beginning an eloquent Sermon, preached on the 30th 
of January, the Anniversary of what is called King Charles's 
Martyrdom, sets out in this pompous manner : " This is a day of 
trouble, of rebuke, and of blasphemy; distinguished in the 
calendar of our church, and the annals of our nation, by the 
sufferings of an excellent Prince, who fell a sacrifice to the rage 
of his rebellious subjects; and by his fall, derived infamy, 
misery, and guilt on them, and their sinful posterity." Bossuet, 
Flechier, and the other celebrated French Preachers, very often 
begin their Discourses with laboured and sublime Introductions. 
These raise attention, and throw a lustre on the subject : but let 
every Speaker be much on his guard against striking a higher 
note at the beginning, than he is able to keep up in his progress. 
In the fourth place, An Introduction should usually be carried 
on in the calm manner. This is seldom the place for vehemence 
and passion. Emotions must rise as the Discourse advances. 
The minds of the Hearers must be gradually prepared, before 
the Speaker can venture on strong and passionate sentiments. 
The exceptions to this rule are, when the subject is such, that 
the very mention of it naturally awakens some passionate emo- 
tion ; or when the unexpected presence of some person or object, 
in a Popular Assembly, inflames the Speaker, and makes him 
break forth with unusual warmth. Either of these will justify 
what is called the Exordium ab abrupto. Thus the appearance 
of Catiline in the Senate renders the vehement beginning of 
Cicero's first Oration against him very natural and proper : 
" Quousque tandem, Catilina, abutere patientia nostra ?" And 
thus Bishop Atterbury, in preaching from his text, " Blessed is 
he, whosoever shall not be offended in me," ventures on breaking 
forth with this bold Exordium : " And can any man then be 
offended in thee, blessed Jesus ?" which address to our Saviour he 
continues for a page or two, till he enters on the division of his 
subject, But such Introductions as these should be hazarded by 
very few, as they promise so much vehemence and unction 
through the rest of the Discourse, that it is very difficult to fulfil 
the expectations of the Hearers. 



LECT. XXXI.] or A DISCOURSE, 365 

At the same time, though the Introduction is not the place in 
which warm emotions are usually to be attempted, yet I must 
take notice, that it ought to prepare the way for such as are 
designed to be raised in subsequent parts of the Discourse. 
The Orator should, in the beginning, turn the minds of his 
hearers towards those sentiments and feelings which he seeks to 
awaken in the course of his Speech. According, for instance, 
as it is compassion, or indignation, or contempt, on which his 
Discourse is to rest, he ought to sow the seeds of these in his 
Introduction; he ought to begin with breathing that spirit 
which he means to inspire. Much of the Orator's art and 
ability is shown, in thus striking properly at the commencement, 
the key-note, if we may so express it, of the rest of his Oration. 

In the fifth place, It is a rule in Introductions, not to antici- 
pate any material part of the subject. "When topics, or argu- 
ments, which are afterwards to be enlarged upon, are hinted at, 
and in part, brought forth in the Introduction, they lose the 
grace of novelty upon their second appearance. The impression 
intended to be made by any capital thought, is always made 
with the greatest advantage, when it is made entire, and in its 
proper place. 

In the last place, the Introduction ought to be proportioned, 
both in length, and in kind, to the Discourse that is to follow : 
in length, as nothing can be more absurd than to erect a very 
great portico before a small building ; and in kind, as it is no 
less absurd to overcharge, with superb ornaments, the portico of 
a plain dwelling house, or to make the entrance to a monument 
as gay as that to an arbour. Common sense directs, that every 
part of a Discourse should be suited to the strain and spirit of 
the whole. 

These are the principal rules that relate to Introductions. 
They are adapted, in a great measure, equally, to discourses of 
all kinds. In Pleadings at the Bar, or Speeches in Public As- 
semblies, particular care must be taken not to employ any In- 
troduction of that kind, which the adverse party may lay hold 
of, and turn to his advantage. To this inconvenience all those 
Introductions are exposed, which are taken from general and 
common-place topics ; and it never fails to give an adversary a 
considerable triumph, if by giving a small turn to something we 
had said in our Exordium, he can appear to convert to his 
own favour, the principles with which we had set out, in begin- 
ning our attack upon him. In the case of Replies, Quinctilian 
makes an observation which is very worthy of notice ; that In- 
troductions, drawn from something that has been said in the 
course of the Debate, have always a peculiar grace ; and the 
reason he gives for it is just and sensible : " Multum gratiae 
exordio est, quod ab actione diversse partis materiam trahit ; hoc 
ipso, quod non compositum domi, sed ibi atque e re natum : et 
facilitate famam ingenii auget ; et facie simplicis, sumptique e 



366 INTEODUCTION [LECT. XXXI. 

proximo sermonis, fidem quoque acquirit ; adeo, ut etiamsi reli- 
qua scripta atque elaborata sint, tamen videatur tota extempo- 
ralis oratio, cujus initium nihil preparatum habuisse, manifestum 
est."* 

In Sermons, such a practice as this cannot take place ; and 
indeed, in composing Sermons, few things are more difficult than 
to remove an appearance of stiffness from an Introduction, when 
a formal one is used. The French Preachers, as I before ob- 
served, are often very splendid and lively in their Introductions ; 
but, among us, attempts of this kind are not always so success- 
ful. When long Introductions are formed upon some common- 
place topic, as the desire of happiness being natural to man, or 
the like, they never fail of being tedious. Variety should be 
studied in this part of composition as much as possible ; often it 
may be proper to begin without any Introduction at all, unless, 
perhaps, one or two sentences. Explanatory Introductions from 
the context, are the most simple of any, and frequently the best 
that can be used : but as they are in hazard of becoming dry, 
they should never be long. A Historical Introduction, has, 
generally, a happy effect to rouse attention ; when one can lay 
hold upon some noted fact that is connected with the Text or 
the Discourse, and by a proper illustration of it, open the way 
to the subject that is to be treated of. 

After the Introduction, what commonly comes next in order, 
is the Proposition, or Enunciation of the Subject ; concerning 
which there is nothing to be said, but that it should be as clear 
and distinct as possible, and expressed in few and plain words, 
without the least affectation. To this generally succeeds the 
Division, or the laying down the method of the Discourse ; on 
which it is necessary to make some observations. I do not 
mean, that in every Discourse, a formal Division or Distribution 
of it into parts, is requisite. There are many occasions of 
Public Speaking when this is neither requisite nor would be 
proper ; when the Discourse, perhaps, is to be short, or only one 
point is to be treated of ; or when the Speaker does not choose 
to warn his hearers of the method he is to follow, or of the 
conclusion to which he seeks to bring them. Order of one 
kind or other is, indeed, essential to every good Discourse ; that 
is, every thing should be so arranged, as that what goes before 
may give light and force to what follows. But this may be ac- 
complished by means of a concealed method. What we call 
Division is, when the method is propounded in form to the 
hearers. 

* " An Introduction, which is founded upon the pleading of the opposite party, is 
extremely graceful ; for g this reason, tliat it appears not to have been meditated at home 
but to have taken rise from the business, and to have been composed on the spot. Hence 
it gives to the Speaker the reputation of a quick invention, and adds weight likewise to 
his Discourse, as artless and unlaboured ; insomuch, that though all the rest of his Ora- 
tion should be studied and written, yet the whole Discourse has the appearance of being 
extemporary, as it is evident that the Introduction to it was unpremeditated." 



LECT. XXXI.] OF A DISCOURSE. 367 

The Discourse in which this sort of Division most commonly 
takes place, is a Sermon ; and a question has been moved, 
whether this method of laying down heads, as it is called, be the 
best method of preaching. A very able judge, the Archbishop 
of Cambray, in his Dialogues on Eloquence, declares strongly 
against it. He observes, that it is a modern invention ; that 
it was never practised by the Fathers of the Church ; and, what 
is certainly true, that it took its rise from the schoolmen, when 
Metaphysics began to be introduced into preaching. He is 
of opinion, that it renders a Sermon stiff; that it breaks the 
unity of the Discourse ; and that, by the natural connexion 
of one part with another, the attention of the hearers would 
be carried along the whole with more advantage. 

But, notwithstanding his authority and his arguments, I can- 
not help being of opinion, that the present method of dividing 
a Sermon into heads, ought not to be laid aside. Established 
practice has now given it so much weight, that, were there 
nothing more in its favour, it would be dangerous for any 
Preacher to deviate so far from the common track. But the 
practice itself has also, in my judgment, much reason on its 
side. If formal partitions give a Sermon less of the oratorical 
appearance, they render it, however, more clear, more easily ap- 
prehended, and, of course, more instructive to the bulk of 
hearers, which is always the main object to be kept in view, 
The heads of a Sermon are great assistances to the memory and 
recollection of a hearer. They serve also to fix his attention. 
They enable him more easily to keep pace with the progress of 
the Discourse ; they give him pauses and resting-places, where 
he can reflect on what has been said, and look forward to what is 
to follow. They are attended with this advantage too, that they 
give the audience the opportunity of knowing, before-hand, when 
they are to be released from the fatigue of attention, and there- 
by make them follow the Speaker more patiently : " Reficit au- 
dientem," says Quinctilian, taking notice of this very advantage 
of Divisions in other Discourses, " Reficit audientem certo singu- 
larum partium fine ; non aliter quam facientibus iter, multum 
detrahunt fatigationis notata spatia inscriptis lapidibus : nam et 
exhausti laboris nosse mensuram voluptati est; et hortatur ad 
reliqua fortius exequenda, scire quantum supersit."* With 
regard to breaking the Unity of a Discourse, I cannot be of 
opinion that there arises, from that quarter, any argument 
against the method I am defending. If the Unity be broken, it 
is to the nature of the heads, or topics of which the Speaker 
treats, that this is to be imputed ; not to his laying them down 
in form. On the contrary, if his heads be well chosen, his mark- 

* " The conclusion of each head is a relief to the hearers ; just as upon a journey, 
the mile-stones, which are set upon the road, serve to diminish the traveller's fatigue. 
For we are always pleased with seeing our lahour begin to lessen ; and, by calculating- 
how much remains, are stirred up to finish our task more cheerfully." 



368 INTRODUCTION [LECT. XXXI. 

ing them out, and distinguishing them, in place of impairing the 
Unity of the whole, renders it more conspicuous and complete ; 
by showing how all the parts of a Discourse hang upon one 
another, and tend to one point. 

In a Sermon, or in a Pleading, or any Discourse where Divi- 
sion is proper to be used, the most material rules are, 

First, that the several parts into which the subject is divided, 
be really distinct from one another ; that is, that no one include 
another. It were a very absurd Division, for instance, if one 
should propose to treat first, of the advantages of Virtue, and 
next, of those of Justice or Temperance ; because, the first 
head evidently comprehends the second, as a Genus does the 
Species; which method of proceeding involves the subject in 
indistinctness and disorder. 

Secondly, In Division, we must take care to follow the order 
of nature ; beginning with the simplest points, such as are easiest 
apprehended, and necessary to be first discussed ; and proceeding 
thence to those which are built upon the former, and which 
suppose them to be known. We must divide the subject into 
those parts into which most easily and naturally it is resolved ; 
that it may seem to split itself, and not to be violently torn 
asunder : " Dividere," as is commonly said, " non frangere." 
r. Thirdly, The several members of a Division ought to exhaust 
the subject ; otherwise we do not make a complete division ; we 
exhibit the subject by pieces and corners only, without giving 
any such plan as displays the whole. 

Fourthly, The terms in which our partitions are expressed, 
should be as concise as possible. Avoid all circumlocution here. 
Admit not a single word but what is necessary. Precision is to 
be studied, above all things, in laying down a method. It is this 
which chiefly makes a Division appear neat and elegant : when 
the several heads are propounded in the clearest, most expres- 
sive, and, at the same time, the fewest words possible. This 
never fails to strike the hearers agreeably ; and is, at the same 
time, of great consequence towards making the divisions be more 
easily remembered. 

Fifthly, Avoid an unnecessary multiplication of heads. To 
split a subject into a great many minute parts, by Divisions and 
Subdivisions without end, has always a bad effect in speaking. 
It may be proper in a logical treatise ; but it makes an Oration 
appear hard and dry, and unnecessarily fatigues the memory. 
In a Sermon, there may be from three to five or six heads, 
including Subdivisions ; seldom should there be more. 

In a Sermon, or in a Pleading at the Bar, few things are of 
greater consequence, than a proper or happy Division. It 
should be studied with much accuracy and care ; for if one 
take a wrong method at first setting out, it will lead them astray 
in all that follows. It will render the whole Discourse either 
perplexed or languid ; and though the hearers may not be able 



LECT. XXXI.] OF A DISCOURSE. - 369 

to tell where the fault or disorder lies, they will be sensible 
there is a disorder somewhere, and find themselves little af- 
fected by what is spoken. The French writers of Sermons 
study neatness and elegance in the Division of their subjects 
much more than the English do; whose distributions, though 
sensible and just, yet are often inartificial and verbose. Among 
the ^ French, however, too much quaintness appears in their 
Divisions, with an affectation of always setting out either 
with two, or with three general heads of Discourse. A Divi- 
sion of Massillon's on this text, " It is finished," has been 
much extolled by the French Critics : " This imports," says 
the Preacher, " consummation, first, of justice on the part of 
God; secondly, of wickedness on the part of men; thirdly, 
of love on the part of Christ." This also of Bourdaloue's has 
been much praised, from these words, " My peace I give unto 
you:" "Peace," says he, "first, to the understanding, by 
submission to faith; secondly, to the heart, by submission to 
the law." 

The next constituent part of a Discourse, which I mentioned, 
was Narration or Explication. I put these two together, both 
because they fall nearly under the same rules, and because they 
commonly answer the same purpose; serving to illustrate the 
cause, or the subject of which the Orator treats, before he 
proceeds to argue either on one side or other ; or to make any 
attempt for interesting the passions of the hearers. 

In the Pleadings at the Bar, Narration is often a very im- 
portant part of the Discourse, and requires to be particularly 
attended to. Besides its being in any case no easy matter to 
relate with grace and propriety, there is, in Narrations at the 
Bar, a peculiar difficulty. The Pleader must say nothing but 
what is true ; and, at the same time, he must avoid saying any- 
thing that will hurt his cause. The facts which he relates are 
to be the ground-work of all his future reasoning. To recount 
them so as to keep strictly within the bounds of truth, and yet to 
present them under the colours most favourable to his cause ; to 
place, in the most striking light, every circumstance which is to 
his advantage, and to soften and weaken such as make against 
him, demand no small exertion of skill and dexterity. He must 
always remember, that if he discovers too much art, he defeats 
his own purpose, and creates a distrust of his sincerity. Quinc- 
tilian very properly directs, " Effugienda in hac praecipue parte, 
omnis calliditatis suspicio ; neque enim se usquam magis custo- 
dit judex, quam cum narrat orator ; nihil turn videatur fictum; 
nihil sollicitum ; omnia potius a causa, quam ab oratore, profecta 
videantur."* 

* " In this part of Discourse, the Speaker must he very careful to shun every 
appearance of art and cunning. For there is no time at which the Judge is more upon 
his guard, than when the Pleader is relating facts. Let nothing then seem feigned ; 
nothing anxiously concealed. Let all that is said, appear to arise from the causa 
itself, and not to be the work of the Orator." 



370 NARRATION AND [LECT. XXXI. 

To be clear and distinct, to be probable, and to be concise, are 
the qualities which Critics chiefly require in Narration ; each of 
which carries, sufficiently, the evidence of its importance, Dis- 
tinctness belongs to the whole train of the Discourse, but is 
especially requisite in Narration, which ought to throw light on 
all that follows. A fact, or a single circumstance, left iti obscu- 
rity, and misapprehended by the Judge, may destroy the effect 
of all the argument and reasoning which the Speaker employs. 
If his Narration be improbable, the Judge will not regard it ; 
and if it be tedious and diffuse, he will be tired of it, and forget 
it. In order to produce distinctness, besides the study of the 
general rules of perspicuity which were formerly given, Narra- 
tion requires particular attention to ascertain clearly the names, 
the dates, the places, and every other material circumstance of 
the facts recounted. In order to be probable in Narration, it is 
material to enter into the characters of the persons of whom we 
speak, and to show, that their actions proceeded from such mo- 
tives as are natural, and likely to gain belief. In order to be 
as concise as the subject will admit, it is necessary to throw out 
all superfluous circumstances ; the rejection of which will like- 
wise tend to make our Narration more forcible and more clear. 

Cicero is very remarkable for his talent of Narration ; and 
from the examples in his Orations much may be learned. The 
Narration, for instance, in the celebrated Oration pro Milone, 
has been often and justly admired. His scope is to show, that 
though in fact Clodius was killed by Milo, or his servants, yet 
that it was only in self-defence ; and that the design had been 
laid, not by Milo against Clodius, but by Clodius against Milo's 
life. All the circumstances for rendering this probable are 
painted with wonderful art. In relating the manner of Milo's 
setting out from Rome, he gives the most natural description of 
a family excursion to the country, under which it was impossible 
that any bloody design could be concealed. " He remained," 
says he, " in the Senate-house that day, till all the business was 
over. He came home, changed his clothes deliberately, and 
waited for some,, till his wife had got all her things ready for 
going with him in his carriage to the country. He did not set 
out till such time as Clodius might easily have been in Rome, if 
he had not been lying in wait for Milo by the way. By and 
by, Clodius met him on the road, on horseback, like a man pre- 
pared for action, no carriage, nor his wife, as was usual, nor any 
family equipage along with him ; whilst Milo, who is supposed 
to be meditating slaughter and assassination, is travelling in a 
carriage with his wife, wrapped up in his cloak, embarrassed 
with baggage, and attended by a great train of women servants, 
and boys." He goes on, describing the rencounter that followed; 
Clodius's servants attacking those of Milo, and killing the driver 
of his carriage ; Milo jumping out, throwing off his cloak, and 
making the best defence he could, while Clodius's servants 



LECT. XXXI.] EXPLICATION. 371 

endeavoured to surround him ; and then concludes his Narration 
with a very delicate and happy stroke. He does not say in plain 
words, that Milo's servants killed Clodius, but that "in the 
midst of the tumult, Milo's servants, without the orders, without 
the knowledge, without the presence of their master, did what 
every master would have wished his servants, in a like con- 
juncture, to have done." * 

In Sermons, where there is seldom any occasion for Narration, 
Explication of the subject to be discoursed on, comes in the place 
of Narration at the Bar, and is to be taken up much on the same 
tone ; that is, it must be concise, clear, and distinct ; and in a 
Style correct and elegant, rather than highly adorned. To ex- 
plain the doctrine of the text with propriety ; to give a full and 
perspicuous account of the nature of that virtue or duty which 
forms the subject of the Discourse, is properly the didactic part 
of preaching ; on the right execution of which much depends for 
all that comes afterwards in the way of persuasion. The great 
art in succeeding in it, is, to meditate profoundly on the subject, 
so as to be able to place it in a clear and strong point of view. 
Consider what light other passages of Scripture throw upon it ; 
consider whether it be a subject nearly related to some other 
from which it is proper to distinguish it: consider whether it 
can be illustrated to advantage by comparing it with, or opposing 
it to, some other thing : by inquiring into causes, or tracing 
effects ; by pointing out examples, or appealing to the feelings 
of the hearers ; that thus, a definite, precise, circumstantial view 
may be afforded of the doctrine to be inculcated. Let the 
preacher be persuaded, that, by such distinct and apt illustrations 
of the known truths of religion, it may both display great merit 
in the way of composition, and what he ought to consider as far 
more valuable, render his Discourses weighty, instructive, and 
useful. 

* " Milo, cum in Senatu fuisset eo die ; quoad Senatus, dimissus est, domum venit. 
Calceos et vestimenta mutavit ; paulisper, dum se uxor (ut fit) comparat, commoratus 
est; deinde profectus est, id temporis cum jam Clodius, si quidem eo die Romam ven- 
turus erat, redire potuisset. Obviam fit ei Clodius expedhus, in equo, nulla rheda, 
nullis impediments, nullis Grsecis comitibus, ut solebat ; sine uxore, quod nunquam 
fere. Cum hie insidiator, qui iter illud ad caedem faciendam apparasset, cum uxore 
veheretur in rheda, penulatus, vulgi magno impedimento, ac muliebri et delicato ancil- 
larum puerorumque comitatu. Fit obviam Clodio ante fundum ejus, hora fere undecima, 
aut non multo secus. Statim complures cum telis in hunc faciunt de loco superiore im- 
petum : adversirhedarium occidunt ; cum autem hie de rheda, rejectapenula desiluisset, 
I seque acri animo defenderet, illi qui erant cum Clodio, gladiis eductis, partim recurrere 
ad rhedam, ut a tergo JMilonem adorirentur ; partim, quod hunc jam interfectum puta- 
rent, ca>dere inciphint ejus servos qui post erant ; ex quibus qui animo fideli in doimnum 
et praesenti fuerunt partim occisi sunt ; partim cum ad rhedam pugnare viderunt, e* 
domino succurrere prohiberentur, Milonemque occisum etiam ex ipso Clodio audirenf, 
et ita esse putarent, feceruntid servi Milonis (dicam enim non derivandi criminis causa, 
sed ut factum est) neque imperante, neque sciente, neque praesente domino, quod suos 
quisque servos in tali re facere voluisset." 



372 THE ARGUMENTATIVE PART [LECT. XXXII. 



LECTURE XXXII. 

CONDUCT OF A DISCOURSE — THE ARGUMENTATIVE PART- 
THE PATHETIC PART — THE PERORATION. 



In treating of the constituent parts of a regular Discourse or 
Oration, I have already considered the Introduction, the Divi- 
sion, and the Narration or Explication. I proceed next to treat 
of the argumentative or reasoning part of a Discourse. In what- 
ever place or on whatever subject one speaks, this, beyond doubt, 
is of the greatest consequence. For the great end for which 
men speak on any serious occasion, is to convince their hearers 
of something being either true, or right, or good ; and by means 
of this conviction, to influence their practice. Reason and Argu- 
ment make the foundation, as I have often inculcated, of all 
manly and persuasive Eloquence. 

Now, with respect to Arguments, three things are requisite. 
First, the invention of them ; secondly, the proper disposition 
and arrangement of them ; and thirdly, the expressing of them 
in such a style and manner, as to give them their full force. 

The first of these, Invention, is, without doubt, the most 
material, and the ground-work of the rest. But, with respect 
to this, I am afraid it is beyond the power of art to give any 
real assistance. Art cannot go so far, as to supply a Speaker 
with Arguments on every cause, and every subject ; though it 
may be of considerable use in assisting him to arrange and ex- 
press those, which his knowledge of the subject has discovered. 
For it is one thing to discover the reasons that are most proper 
to convince men, and another, to manage these reasons with 
the most advantage. The latter is all that Rhetoric can pre- 
tend to. 

The ancient Rhetoricians did indeed attempt to go much far- 
ther than this. They attempted to form Rhetoric into a more 
complete System ; and professed not only to assist Public 
Speakers in setting off their Arguments to most advantage ; but 
to supply the defect of their invention, and to teach them where 
to find Arguments on every subject and cause. Hence their 
doctrine of Topics, or "Loci Communes," and " Sedes Argu- 
mentorum," which makes so great a figure in the writings of 
Aristotle, Cicero, and Quinctilian. These Topics, or Loci, were 
no other than general ideas applicable to a great many different 
subjects, which the Orator was directed to consult, in order to 
find out materials for his Speech. They had their intrinsic and 
extrinsic Loci ; some Loci, that were common to all the different 
kinds of Public Speaking, and some that were peculiar to each. 



LECT. XXXII.] OF A DISCOURSE. 373 

The common or general Loci, were such as Genus and Species, 
Cause and Effect, Antecedents and Consequents, Likeness and 
Contrariety, Definition, Circumstances of Time and Place ; and a 
great many more of the same kinds. For each of the different 
kinds of Public Speaking, they had their " Loci Personarum," 
and " Loci Rerum." As in Demonstrative Orations, for instance, 
the heads from which any one could be decried or praised ; his 
birth, his country, his education, his kindred, the qualities of his 
body, the qualities of his mind, the fortune he enjoyed, the sta- 
tions he had filled, &c. ; and in Deliberative Orations, the Topics 
that might be used in recommending any public measure, or 
dissuading from it; such as, honesty, justice, facility, profit, 
pleasure, glory, assistance from friends, mortification to enemies, 
and the like. 

The Grecian Sophists were the first inventors of this artificial 
System of Oratory ; and they showed a prodigious subtilty and 
fertility in the contrivance of these Loci. Succeeding Rhetori- 
cians, dazzled by the plan, wrought them up into so regular a 
system, that one would think they meant to teach how a person 
might mechanically become an Orator, without any genius at 
all. They gave him receipts for making Speeches, on all manner 
of subjects. At the same time, it is evident that though this 
study of common places might produce very showy academical 
declamations, it could never produce useful discourses on real 
business. The Loci indeed supplied a most exuberant fecundity 
of matter. One who had no other aim but to talk copiously and 
plausibly, by consulting them on every subject, and laying hold 
of all that they suggested, might discourse without end ; and 
that too, though he had none but the most superficial knowledge 
of his subject. But such discourse could be no other than trivial. 
What is truly solid and persuasive, must be drawn "ex visceribus 
causae," from a thorough knowledge of the subject, and profound 
meditation on it. They who would direct students of Oratory to 
any other sources of Argumentation, only delude them ; and by 
attempting to render Rhetoric too perfect an art, they render it, 
in truth, a trifling and childish study. 

On this doctrine, therefore, of the Rhetorical Loci, or Topics, 
I think it superfluous to insist. If any think that the knowledge 
of them may contribute to improve their invention, and extend 
their views, they must consult Aristotle and Quinctilian, or what 
Cicero has written on this head, in his Treatise De Inventione, 
his Topica, and Second Book De Oratore. But when they are 
to prepare a Discourse, by which they propose to convince a 
Judge, or to produce any considerable effect upon an Assembly, 
I would advise them to lay aside their common places, and to 
think closely of their subject. Demosthenes, I dare say, con- 
sulted none of the Loci, when he was inciting the Athenians to 
take arms against Philip ; and where Cicero has had recourse to 
them, his Orations are so much the worse on that account. 



374 THE ARGUMENTATIVE PART [LECT. XXXII. 

I proceed to what is of more real use, to point out the 
assistance that can be given, not with respect to the inven- 
tion, but with respect to the disposition and conduct of Argu- 
ments. 

Two different methods may be used by Orators in the conduct 
of their reasoning ; the terms of art for which are, the Analytic, 
and the Synthetic method. The Analytic is, when the Orator 
conceals his intention concerning the point he is to prove, till he 
has gradually brought his hearers to the designed conclusion. 
They are led on, step by step, from one known truth to another, 
till the conclusion be stolen upon them, as the natural conse- 
quence of a chain of propositions. As for instance, when one 
intending to prove the being of a God, sets out with observing 
. that every thing which we see in the world has had a beginning; 
that whatever has had a beginning, must have had a prior cause ; 
that in human productions, art shown in the effect, necessarily 
infers design in the cause : and proceeds, leading you on from one 
cause to another, till you arrive at one supreme first cause, from 
whom is derived all the order and design visible in his works. 
This is much the same with the Socratic method, by which that 
philosopher silenced the Sophists of his age. It is a very artful 
method of reasoning ; may be carried on with much beauty, and 
is proper to be used when the hearers are much- prejudiced 
against any truth, and by imperceptible steps must be led to 
conviction. 

But there are few subjects that will admit this method, and 
not many occasions on which it is proper to be employed. The 
mode of reasoning most generally used, and most suited to the 
train of Popular Speaking, is what is called the Synthetic ; when 
the point to be proved is fairly laid down, and one Argument 
after another is made to bear upon it, till the hearers be fully 
convinced. 

Now, in all arguing, one of the first things to be attended to 
is, among the various Arguments which may occur upon a cause, 
to make a proper selection of such as appear to one's self the 
most solid ; and to employ these as the chief means of persuasion. 
Every Speaker should place himself in the situation of a hearer, 
and think how he would be affected by those reasons, which he 
purposes to employ for persuading others. For he must not 
expect to impose on mankind by mere arts of Speech. They 
are not so easily imposed on, as Public Speakers are sometimes 
apt to think. Shrewdness and Sagacity are found among all 
ranks ; and the Speaker may be praised for his fine Discourse, 
while yetthe hearers are not persuaded of the truth of any one 
thing he has uttered. 

Supposing the Arguments properly chosen, it is evident that 
their effect will, in some measure, depend on the right arrange- 
ment of them; so as they shall not justle and embarrass one 
another, but give mutual aid ; and bear with the fairest and 



LECT. XXXII.] OF A DISCOURSE. 375 

fullest direction on the point in view. Concerning this, the 
following rules may be taken : 

In the first place, Avoid blending Arguments confusedly \ 
together, that are of a separate nature. All Arguments what- 
ever are directed to prove one or other of these three things ; that 
something is true ; that it is morally right or fit ; or that it is 
profitable and good. These make the three great subjects of 
discussion among mankind; Truth, Duty, and Interest. But 
the Arguments directed towards any one of them are generi- 
cally distinct ; and he who blends them all under one Topic, 
which he calls his argument, as, in Sermons especially, is too 
often done, will render his reason indistinct and inelegant. 
Suppose, for instance, that I am recommending to an Audience 
Benevolence, or the Love of our neighbour ; and that I take 
my first Argument from the inward satisfaction which a bene- 
volent temper affords ; my second, from the obligation which the 
example of Christ lays upon us to this duty ; and my third, from 
its tendency to procure us the good-will of all around us ; 
my Arguments are good, but I have arranged them wrong ; 
for my first and third Arguments are taken from consider- 
ations of interest, internal peace, and external advantages ; 
and between these I have introduced one, which rests wholly 
upon duty. I should have kept those classes of Arguments, 
which are addressed to different principles in human nature, 
separate and distinct. 

In the second place, With regard to the different degrees of 
strength in Arguments, the general rule is, to advance in the 
way of climax, " ut augeatur semper, et increscat oratio." This 
especially is to be the course, when the Speaker has a clear 
cause, and is confident that he can prove it fully. He may then 
adventure to begin with feebler Arguments ; rising gradually, 
and not putting forth his whole strength till the last, when he 
can trust to his making a successful impression on the minds of 
hearers, prepared by what has gone before. But this rule is not 
to be always followed. For, if he distrusts his cause, and has 
but one material argument on which to lay the stress, putting 
less confidence in the rest, in this case, it is often proper for him 
to place this material Argument in the front ; to pre-occupy the 
hearers early, and make the strongest effort at first : that, having 
removed prejudices, and disposed them to be favourable, the rest 
of his reasoning may be listened to with more candour. When 
it happens, that amidst a variety of Arguments, there are one or 
two which we are sensible are more inconclusive than the rest, 
and yet proper to be used, Cicero advises to place these in the 
middle, as a station less conspicuous than either the beginnings 
or the end, of the train of reasoning. 

In the third place, When our Arguments are strong and satis- 
factory, the more they are distinguished and treated apart from 
each other, the better. Each can then bear to be brought out 



376 THE ARGUMENTATIVE PART [LECT. XXXII. 

by itself, placed in its full light, amplified and rested upon. 
But when our arguments are doubtful, and only of the presump- 
tive kind, it is safer to throw them together in a crowd, and to 
run them into one another : " ut quae sunt natura imbecilla," as 
Quinctilian speaks, " mutuo auxilio sustineantur ; " that though 
infirm of themselves, they may serve mutually to prop each 
other. He gives a good example, in the case of one who was 
accused of murdering a relation, to whom he was heir. Direct 
proof was wanting; but, "you expected a succession, and a 
great succession ; you were in distressed circumstances ; you 
were pushed to the utmost by your creditors ; you had offended 
your relation, who had made you his heir ; you knew that he 
was just then intending to alter his will; no time was to be lost. 
Each of these particulars by itself," says the Author, " is incon- 
clusive ; but when they are assembled in one group, they have 
effect." 

Of the distinct amplification of one persuasive Argument, we 
have a most beautiful example in Cicero's Oration for Milo. The 
Argument is taken from a circumstance of time. Milo was 
candidate for the consulship ; and Clodius was killed a few days 
before the election. He asks, if any one could believe that Milo 
would be mad enough, at such a critical time, by a most odious 
assassination, to alienate from himself the favour of people, whose 
suffrages he was so anxiously courting? This Argument, the 
moment it is suggested, appears to have considerable weight. 
But it was not enough, simply to suggest it ; it could bear to 
be dwelt upon, and brought into full light. The Orator, there- 
fore, draws a just and striking picture of that solicitous attention 
with which candidates, at such a season, always found it necessary 
to cultivate the good opinion of the people. " Quo tempore," 
says he, "(Scio enim quam timida sit ambitio, quantaque et 
quam sollicita, cupiditas consulates) omnia, non modo quae 
reprehendi palam, sed etiam quse obscure cogitari possunt, 
timemus. Rumorem, fabulam fictam et falsam, perhorrescimus ; 
ora omnium atque oculos intuemur. Nihil enim est tarn tene- 
rum, tarn aut fragile aut flexibile, quam voluntas erga nos 
sensusque civium, qui non modo improbitati irascuntur candida- 
torum, sed etiam in recte factis saepe fastidiunt." From all 
which he most justly concludes, " Hunc diem igitur Campi, 
speratum atque exoptatum, sibi proponens Milo, cruentis niani- 
bus, scelus atque facinus prae se ferens, ad ilia centuriarum 
auspicia veniebat? Quam hoc in illo minimum credibile?"* 
But though such amplification as this be extremely beautiful, I 
must add a caution, 

In the fourth place, against extending arguments too far, and 

* " Well do I know to what length the timidity goes of such as are candidates for 
public offices, and how many anxious cares and attentions, a canvass for the Consul- 
ship necessarily carries along with it. On such an occasion, we are afraid not only of 



LECT. XXXII.] OF A DISCOURSE. 377 

multiplying them too much. This serves rather to render a 
cause suspected, than to give it weight. An unnecessary multi- 
plicity of Arguments both burdens the memory, and detracts 
from the weight of that conviction which a few well chosen 
Arguments carry. It is to be observed too, that in the Ampli- 
fication of Arguments, a diffuse and spreading method, beyond 
the bounds of reasonable illustration, is always enfeebling. It 
takes off greatly from that "vis et acumen," which should be 
the distinguishing character of the Argumentative Part of a 
'Discourse. When a Speaker dwells long on a favourite Argu- 
ment, and seeks to turn it into every possible light, it almost 
always happens, that, fatigued with the effort, he loses the spirit 
with which he set out, and concludes with feebleness what he 
began with force. There is a proper temperance in reasoning 
as there is in other parts of a Discourse. 

After due attention given to the proper arrangement of Argu- 
ments, what is next requisite for their success, is to express 
them in such a Style, and to deliver them in such a manner, as 
shall give them full force. On these heads I must refer the 
Reader to the directions I have given in treating of Style, in 
former Lectures ; and to the directions I am afterwards to give 
concerning Pronunciation and Delivery. 

I proceed, therefore, next to another essential part of Dis- 
course which I mentioned as the fifth in order, that is, the 
Pathetic; in which, if any where, Eloquence reigns, and exerts 
its power. I shall not, in beginning this head, take up time in 
combating the scruples of those who have moved a question, 
whether it be consistent with fairness and candour in a Public 
Speaker, to address the passions of his Audience ? This is a 
question about words alone, and which common sense easily 
determines. In inquiries after mere truth, in matters of simple 
information and instruction, there is no question that the 
passions have no concern, and that all attempts to move them 
are absurd. Wherever conviction is the object, it is the under- 
standing alone that is to be applied to. It is by argument and 
reasoning, that one man attempts to satisfy another of what is 
true, or right, or just ;* but if persuasion be the object, the case 
is changed. In all that relates to practice, there is no man who 
seriously means to persuade another, but addresses himself to 
his passions more or less ; for this plain reason, that passions are 

•what we may openly be reproached with, but what others may think of us in secret. 
The slightest rumour, the most improbable tale that can be devised to our prejudice, 
alarms and disconcerts us. We study the countenance, and the looks of all around us. 
For nothing is so delicate, so frail and uncertain, as the public favour. Our fellow- 
citizens not only are justly offended with the vices of candidates, but even, on occasion 
of meritorious actions, are apt to conceive capricious disgusts. Is there, then, the least 
credibility that Milo, after having so long fixed his attention on the important and 
wished-for day of election, would dare to have any thoughts of presenting himself before 
the august Assembly of the People, as a murderer and assassin, with his hands imbrued 
in blood V* 

D D 



378 THE PATHETIC PART [LECT. XXXII. 

the great springs of human action. The most virtuous man, in 
treating of the most virtuous subject, seeks to touch the heart of 
him to whom he speaks ; and makes no scruple to raise his 
indignation at injustice, or his pity to the distressed, though pity 
and indignation be passions. 

In treating of this part of Eloquence, the ancients made the 
same sort of attempt as they employed with respect to the argu- 
mentative part, in order to bring rhetoric into a more perfect 
system. They inquired metaphysically into the nature of every 
passion ; they gave a definition and a description of it ; they 
treated of its causes, its effects, and its concomitants ; and 
thence deduced rules for working upon it. Aristotle in par- 
ticular has, in his Treatise upon Rhetoric, discussed the nature 
of the passions with much profoundness and subtilty ; and what 
he has written on that head, may be read with no small profit, 
as a valuable piece of Moral Philosophy ; but whether it will 
have any effect in rendering an Orator more pathetic, is to me 
doubtful. It is not, I am afraid, any philosophical knowledge of 
the passions, that can confer this talent. We must be indebted 
for it to Nature, a certain strong and happy sensibility of mind ; 
and one may be a most thorough adept in all the speculative 
knowledge that can be acquired concerning the passions, and 
remain at the same time a cold and dry Speaker. The use of 
rules and instructions on this or any other part of Oratory, is 
not to supply the want of genius, but to direct it where it is 
found, into its proper channel ; to assist it in exerting itself with 
most advantage, and to prevent the errors and extravagancies 
into which it is sometimes apt to run. On the head of the 
Pathetic, the following directions appear to me to be useful. 

The first is to consider carefully, whether the subject admit 
the Pathetic, and render it proper ; and if it does, what part of 
the Discourse is the most proper for attempting it. To deter- 
mine these points belongs to good sense ; for it is evident, that 
there are many subjects which admit not the Pathetic at all, and 
that even in those that are susceptible of it, an attempt to excite 
the passions in the wrong place, may expose an Orator to 
ridicule. All that can be said in general is, that if we expect 
any emotion which we raise to have a lasting effect, we must be 
careful to bring over to our side, in the first place, the under- 
standing and judgment. The hearers must be convinced that 
there are good and sufficient grounds for their entering with 
warmth into the cause. They must be able to justify to them- 
selves the passion which they feel; and remain satisfied that 
they are not carried away by mere delusion. Unless their 
minds be brought into this state, although they may have been 
heated by the Orator's discourse, yet, as soon as he ceases to 
speak, they will resume their ordinary tone of thought ; and the 
emotion which he has raised will die entirely awav. Hence 
most writers assign the Pathetic to the Peroration' or Conclusion, 



LECT. XXXII.] OF A DISCOURSE. 379 

as its natural place ; and, no doubt, all other things being equal, 
this is the impression that one would choose to make last, 
leaving the minds of the hearers warmed with the subject, after 
argument and reasoning had produced their full effect: but 
wherever it is introduced, I must advise, 

In the second place, never to set apart a head of a discourse 
in form, for raising any passion ; never give warning that you 
are about to be pathetic ; and call upon your hearers, as is 
sometimes done, to follow you in the attempt. This almost 
uever fails to prove a refrigerant to passion. It puts the hearers 
immediately on their guard, and disposes them for criticising, 
much more than for being moved. The indirect method of 
making an impression is likely to be more successful, when you 
seize the critical moment that is favourable to emotion, in what- 
ever part of the discourse it occurs, and then, after due prepara- 
tion, throw in such circumstances, and present such glowing 
images, as may kindle their passions before they are aware. 
This can often be done more happily, in a few sentences inspired 
by natural warmth, than in a long and studied Address. 

In the third place, It is necessary to observe, that there is a 
great difference between showing the hearers that they ought to 
be moved, and actually moving them. This distinction is not 
sufficiently attended to, especially by Preachers, who, if they 
have a head in their Sermon to show how much we are bound 
to be grateful to God, or to be compassionate to the distrest, are 
apt to imagine this to be a pathetic part. Now, all the argu- 
ments you produce to show me, why it is my duty, why it is 
reasonable and fit, that I should be moved in a certain way, go 
no farther than to dispose or prepare me for entering into such 
an emotion: but they do not actually excite it. To every 
emotion or passion, Nature has adapted a set of corresponding 
objects ; and without setting these before the mind, it is not in 
the power of any orator to raise that emotion. I am warmed 
with gratitude, I am touched with compassion, not when a 
Speaker shows me that these are noble dispositions, and that it 
is my duty to feel them ; or when he exclaims against me for 
my indifference and coldness. All this time, he is speaking only 
to my reason or conscience. He must describe the kindness and 
tenderness of my friend; he must set before me the distress 
suffered by the person for whom he would interest me ; then, 
and not till then, my heart begins to be touched, my gratitude 
or my compassion begins to flow. The foundation, therefore, 
of all successive execution in the way of Pathetic Oratory is, to - 
paint the object of that passion which we wish to raise, in the 
most natural and striking manner ; to describe it with such cir- 
cumstances as are likely to awaken it in the minds of others. 
Every passion is most strongly excited by sensation ; as anger 
by the feeling of an injury, or the presence of the injurer. 
Next to the influence of Sense, is that of Memory ; and next to 

D D 2 



380 THE PATHETIC PART [LECT. XXXII. 

Memory, is the influence of the Imagination. Of this power, 
therefore, the Orator must avail himself, so as to strike the 
imagination of the hearers with circumstances which, in lustre 
and steadiness, resemble those of Sensation and Remembrance. 
In order to accomplish this, 

In the fourth place, the only effectual method is, to be moved 
yourselves. There are a thousand interesting circumstances 
suggested by real passion, which no art can imitate, and no 
refinement can supply. There is obviously a contagion among 
the passions. 

Ut ridentibus arrident sic flentibus adflent, 
Humani vultus. 

The internal emotion of the Speaker adds a pathos to his words, 
his looks, his gestures, and his whole manner, which exerts a 
power almost irresistible over those who hear him.* But on 
this point, though the most material of all, I shall not now in- 
sist, as I have often had occasion before to show, that all attempts 
towards becoming Pathetic, when we are not moved ourselves, 
expose us to certain ridicule. 

Quinctilian, who discourses upon this subject with much good 
sense, takes pains to inform us of the method which he used, 
when he was a Public Speaker, for entering into those passions 
which he wanted to excite in others ; setting before his own im- 
agination what he calls " Phantasiae," or " Visiones," strong 
pictures of the distress or indignities which they had suffered, 
whose cause he was to plead, and for whom he was to interest 
his hearers ; dwelling upon these, and putting himself in their 
situation, till he was affected by a passion, similar to that which 
the persons themselves had felt.f To this method he attributes 
all the success he ever had in Public Speaking ; and there can 
be no doubt that whatever tends to increase an Orator's sensi- 
bility, will add greatly to his Pathetic Powers. 

In the fifth place, It is necessary to attend to the proper lan- 
guage of the passions. We should observe in what manner any 
one expresses himself who is under the power of a real and a 
strong passion ; and we shall always find his language unaffected 
and simple. It may be animated, indeed, with bold and strong 

* Quid enim aliud est causae ut lugentes, in recenti dolore, disertissime quaedam 
exclamare videantur ; et ira nonunquam in indoctis quoque eloquentiam faciat ; quam 
quod illis inest vis mentis, et veritas ipsa Morum? quare in i is qua? verisimilia esse 
volumus, simus ipsi similes eorum qui vere patiuntur, affectibus 1 et a tali animo 
proficiscatur oratio qualem facere judicem volet. Afficiamur antequam afficere 
conemur." Quinct. Lib. 6. 

*f« " Ut hominem occisum querar ; non omnia qua? in re presenti accidisse credibile 
est, in oculis habebo ? Non percursor ilhe subitus erumpet? non expavescet circum- 
ventus 1 exclamabit, vel rogabit, vel fugiet ? non ferientem, non concidentem videbo ? 
non animo sanguis, et pallor, et gemitus, extremus denique expirantis hiatus, insidet ? — 
Ubi vero miseratione opus erit, nobis ea de quibus querimur accidisse credamus, atque 
id animo nostro persuadeamus. Nos illi simus, quos gravia, indigna, tristia, passos 
queramur. Nee agamus rem quasi alienam ; sed assumamus parumper ilium dolorem. 
Ita dicemus, qua? in simili nostro casu dicturi essemus." Lib. 6. 



LECT. XXXII.] OF A DISCOURSE. 381 

figures, but it will have no ornament or finery. He is not at 
leisure to follow out the play of Imagination. His mind being 
wholly seized by one object, which has heated it, he has no 
other aim, but to represent that in all its circumstances, as strongly 
as he feels it. This must be the Style of the Orator when he 
would be Pathetic ; and this will be his Style, if he speaks from 
real feeling ; bold, ardent, simple. No sort of description will 
then succeed, but what is written " fervente calamo." If he 
stay till he can work up his Style and polish and adorn it, he 
will infallibly cool his own ardour ; and then he will touch the 
heart no more. His composition will become frigid ; it will be 
the language of one who describes, but who does not feel. We 
must take notice, that there is a great difference between paint- 
ing to the imagination, and painting to the heart. The one 
may be done coolly and at leisure : the other must always be 
rapid and ardent. In the former, art and labour may be 
suffered to appear ; in the latter, no effect can follow, unless it 
seem to be the work of nature only. 

In the sixth place, Avoid interweaving any thing of a foreign 
nature with the pathetic part of a Discourse. Beware of all 
digressions, which may interrupt or turn aside the natural course 
of the passion, when once it begins to rise and swell. Sacrifice 
all beauties, however bright and showy, which would divert the 
mind from the principal object, and which would amuse the 
imagination, rather than touch the heart. Hence comparisons 
are always dangerous, and generally quite improper, in the 
midst of passion. Beware even of reasoning unseasonably ; or 
at least, of carrying on a long and subtile train of reasoning, 
on occasions when the principal aim is to excite warm emotions. 

In the last place, Never attempt prolonging the Pathetic too 
much. Warm emotions are too violent to be lasting.* Study 
the proper time of making a retreat; of making a transition 
from the passionate to the calm tone ; in such a manner, how- 
ever, as to descend without falling, by keeping up the same 
Strain of Sentiment that was carried on before, though now 
expressing it with more moderation. Above all things, beware 
of straining passion too far ; of attempting to raise it to un- 
natural heights. Preserve always a due regard to what the 
hearers will bear ; and remember, that he who stops not at the 
proper point ; who attempts to carry them farther in passion, 
than they will follow him, destroys his whole design. By en- 
deavouring to warm them too much, he takes the most effectual 
method of freezing them completely. 



" Nunquam debet esse longa miseratio ; nam cum veros dolores mitiget tempus, 
citius eyenescat, necesseest ilia, quam dicendo effinximus, imago : in qua, si moramur, 
lacrymis fatigatur auditor, et requiescit, et ab illo quem ceperat impetu, in rationem 
red it. ^ Non patiamur igitur frigescere hoc opus ; et affectum, cum ad sumnium per- 
duxerimus, relinquamus ; nee speremus fore, ut aliena mala quisquam diu ploret." 

Quinct. Lib. 6. 



382 THE PATHETIC PAET [LECT. XXXII. 

Having given these rules concerning the Pathetic, I shall 
give one example from Cicero, which will serve to illustrate 
several of them, particularly the last. It shall be taken from 
his last Oration against Yerres, wherein he describes the cruelty 
exercised by Yerres, when Governor of Sicily, against one 
Gavius, a Roman Citizen. This Gavius had made his escape 
from prison, into which he had been thrown by the Governor ; 
and when just embarking at Messina, thinking himself now 
safe, had uttered some threats that when he had once arrived at 
Rome, Yerres should hear of him, and be brought to account 
for having put a Roman citizen in chains. The Chief Magis- 
trate of Messina, a creature of Yerres, instantly apprehends 
him, and gives information of his threatenings. The behaviour 
of Yerres, on this occasion, is described in the most picturesque 
manner, and with all the colours which were proper, in order to 
excite against him the public indignation. He thanks the 
magistrate of Messina for his diligence. Filled with rage, he 
comes into the Forum ; orders Gavius to be brought forth, the 
executioners to attend, and against the laws, and contrary 
to the well-known privileges of a Roman citizen, commands 
him to be stripped naked, bound, and scourged publicly in a 
cruel manner. Cicero then proceeds thus : " Caedebatur virgis, 
in medio foro Messanae, civis Romanus, Judices !" every word 
rises above another in describing this flagrant enormity ; and 
" Judices" is brought out at the end with the greatest propriety : 
" Caedebatur virgis, in medio foro Messanae, civis Romanus, 
Judices ! cum interea, nullus gemitus, nulla vox alia istius miseri, 
inter dolorem crepitumque plagarum audiebatur, nisi haec, Civis 
Romanus sum. Hac se commemoratione civitatis, omnia ver- 
bera depulsurum a corpore arbitrabatur. Is non modo hoc non 
perfecit, ut virgarum vim deprecaretur, sed cum imploraret saepius 
usurparetque nomen civis, crux, crux inquam, infelici isto et 
aerumnoso, qui nunquam istam potestatem viderat, comparaba- 
tur. O nomen dulce libertatis ! O jus eximium nostrae civi- 
tatis ! O Lex Porcia, legesque Semproniae ! — Huccine omnia 
tandem reciderunt, ut civis Romanus, in provincia populi Ro- 
mani, in oppido foederatorum, ab eo qui beneficio populi Ro- 
mani fasces et secures haberet, deligatus, in foro, virgis caede- 
retur !" * 

* " In the midst of the market-place of Messina, a Roman Citizen, O Judges ! was 
cruelly scourged with rods ; when in the mean time, amidst the noise of the blows 
which he suffered, no voice, no complaint of this unhappy man was heard, except this 
exclamation, Remember that I am a Roman Citizen ! By pleading this privilege of his 
birthright, he hoped to have stopped the strokes of the executioner. But his hopes 
were vain ; for so far was he from being able to obtain thereby any mitigation of his 
torture, that when he continued to repeat this exclamation, and to plead the rights of a 
citizen, a cross, a cross, I say, was preparing to be set up lor the execution of this un- 
fortunate person, who never before had beheld that instrument of cruel death. 
sacred and honoured name of Liberty ! O boasted and revered privilege of a Roman 
Citizen ! O ye Porcian and Sempronian Laws ! to this issue have ye all come, that a 
Citizen of Rome, in a province of the Roman empire, within an allied city, should 



LECT. XXXII.] OF A DISCOURSE. 383 

Nothing can be finer nor better conducted than this passage. 
The circumstances are well chosen for exciting both the compas- 
sion of his hearers for Gavius, and their indignation against 
Verres. The Style is simple ; and the passionate exclamation, 
the Address to Liberty and the Laws, is well timed, and in the 
proper style of Passion. The Orator goes on to exaggerate 
Verres's cruelty still farther, by another very striking circum- 
stance. He ordered a gibbet to be erected for Gavius, not 
in the common place of execution, but just by the sea-shore, 
over against the coast of Italy. " Let him," said he, " who 
boasts so much of his being a Roman citizen, take a view from 
his gibbet of his own country. — This base insult over a dying 
man is the least part of his guilt. It was not Gavius alone that 
Verres meant to insult ; but it was you, O Romans ! it was 
every citizen who now hears me ; in the person of Gavius, he 
scoffed at your rights, and showed in what contempt he held the 
Roman name, and Roman liberties." 

Hitherto all is beautiful, animated, pathetic ; and the model 
would have been perfect, if Cicero had stopped at this point. 
But his redundant and florid genius carried him farther. He 
must needs interest not his hearers only, but the beasts, the 
mountains, and the stones against Verres : " Si hsec non ad 
cives Romanos, non ad amicos nostrae civitatis, non ad eos 
qui populi Romani nomen audissent ; denique si non ad homines 
verum ad bestias ; atque ut longius progrediar, si in aliqua 
desertissima solitudine, ad saxa et ad scopulos haec conqueri 
et deplorare vellem, tamen omnia muta atque inanima, tanta et 
tarn indigna rerum atrocitate commoverentur."* This, with all 
the deference due to so eloquent an Orator, we must pronounce 
to be Declamatory, not Pathetic. This is straining the Lan- 
guage of Passion too far. Every hearer sees this immediately 
to be a studied figure of Rhetoric ; it may amuse him, but in- 
stead of inflaming him more, it, in truth, cools his passion. So . 
dangerous it is to give scope to a flowery imagination, when one 
intends to make a strong and passionate impression. 

No other part of a Discourse remains now to be treated of, 
except the Peroration or Conclusion. Concerning this, it is 
needless to say much, because it must vary so considerably, ac- 
cording to the strain of the preceding Discourse. Sometimes 
the whole pathetic part comes in most properly at the Perora- 



publicly, in a market-place, be loaded with chains, and beaten with rods, at the com- 
mand of one who, from the favour of the Roman people alone, derived all his authority 
and ensigns of power !" 

* " Were 1 employed in lamenting those instances of an atrocious oppression and 
cruelty, not among an assembly of Roman citizens, not among the allies of our state, 
not among those who had ever heard the name of the Roman people, not even among 
human creatures, but in the midst of the brute creation ; and to go farther, were I 
pouring forth my lamentations to the stones, and to the rocks, in some remote and desert 
wilderness, even those mute and inanimate beings would, at the recital of such shock- 
ing indignities, be thrown into commotion." 



384 CONCLUSION OF A DISCOUKSE. [LECT. XXXII* 

tion. Sometimes, when the Discourse has been entirely argu- 
mentative, it is fit to conclude with summing up the arguments, 
placing them in one view, and leaving the impression of them 
full and strong on the mind of the audience. For the great rule 
of a Conclusion, and what nature obviously suggests, is, to place 
that last on which we choose that the strength of our cause 
should rest. 

In Sermons, inferences from what has been said, make a com- 
mon Conclusion. With regard to these, care should be taken, 
not only that they rise naturally, but (what is less commonly 
attended to) that they should so much agree with the strain of 
sentiment throughout the Discourse, as not to break the Unity 
of the Sermon. For inferences, how justly soever they may be 
deduced from the doctrine of the text, yet have a bad effect, if, 
at the Conclusion of a Discourse, they introduce some subject 
altogether new, and turn off our attention from the main object 
to which the Preacher had directed our thoughts. They appear, 
in this case, like excrescences jutting out from the body, which 
form an unnatural addition to it ; and tend to enfeeble the im- 
pression which the Composition, as a whole, is calculated to make. 

The most eloquent of the French, perhaps, indeed of all 
modern Orators, Bossuet, Bishop of Meaux, terminates in a very 
moving manner, his funeral Oration on the great Prince of 
Conde, with this return upon himself, and his old age : " Accept, 
O Prince ! these last efforts of a voice which you once well 
knew. With you all my funeral Discourses are now to end. 
Instead of deploring the death of others, henceforth, it shall be 
my study to learn from you, how my own may be blessed. 
Happy, if warned by those grey hairs, of the account which I 
must soon give of my ministry, I reserve, solely for that flock 
whom I ought to feed with the word of life, the feeble remains 
of a voice which now trembles, and of an ardour which is now 
on the point of being extinct."* 

In all Discourses, it is a matter of importance to hit the pre- 
cise time of concluding, so as to bring our Discourse just to a 
point ; neither ending abruptly and unexpectedly ; nor disap- 
pointing the expectation of the hearers, when they look for the 
close ; and continuing to hover round and round the Conclusion, 
till they become heartily tired of us. We should endeavour to 
go off with a good grace ; not to end with a languishing and 
drawling sentence ; but to close with dignity and spirit, that we 
may leave the minds of the hearers warm ; and dismiss them 
with a favourable impression of the .subject and of the Speaker. 

* " Agreez ces derniers efforts d'une voix que- vous fut connue. Vous mettrez fin a 
tous ces discours. Au lieu de deplorer la mort des autres, Grand Prince ! dorenavant 
je veux apprendre de vous, a rendre la mienne sainte. Heureux, si averti par ces 
cheveux blancs, du compte que je dois rendre de mon administration, je reserve au 
troupeau que je dois nourrir de la parole de vie, les restes d'une voix qui tombe, et 
d'une ardeur qui s'eteint." — These are the last sentences of that Oration; hut the whole 
of the Peroration from that passage, " Venez, peuples, maintenant," &c. though it is too 
^ong for insertion, is a great master-piece of Pathetic Eloquence. 



LECT. XXXIII.] PRONUNCIATION, OR DELIVERY. 385 

LECTUEE XXXIII. 

PRONUNCIATION, OR DELIVERY. 

Having treated of several general heads relating to Elo- 
quence, or Public Speaking, I now proceed to another very im- 
portant part of the subject yet remaining, that is, the Pronun- 
ciation, or Delivery of a Discourse. How much stress was laid 
upon this by the most eloquent of all Orators, Demosthenes, 
appears from a noted saying of his, related both by Cicero and 
Quinctilian: when being asked, What was the first point in 
Oratory ? he answered, Delivery ; and being asked, What was 
the second? and afterwards, What was the third? he still 
answered, Delivery. There is no wonder that he should have 
rated this so high, and that for improving himself in it, he should 
have employed those assiduous and painful labours, which all the 
ancients take so much notice of; for beyond doubt, nothing is of 
more importance. To superficial thinkers, the management of 
the voice and gesture, in Public Speaking, may appear to relate 
to Decoration only, and to be one of the inferior arts of catch- 
ing an audience. But this is far from being the case- It is in- 
timately connected with what is, or ought to be, the end of all 
Public Speaking, Persuasion; and therefore deserves the study 
of the most grave and serious Speakers, as much as of those 
whose only aim is to please. 

For let it be considered, whenever we address ourselves to 
others by words, our intention certainly is to make some im- 
pression on those to whom we speak ; it is to convey to them our 
own ideas and emotions. Now the tone of our voice, our looks, 
and gestures, interpret our ideas and emotions no less than words 
do; nay, the impression they make on others, is frequently 
much stronger than any that words can make. We often see, 
that an expressive look, or a passionate cry, unaccompanied by 
words, conveys to others more forcible ideas, and rouses within 
them stronger passions, than can be communicated by the most 
eloquent Discourse. The signification of our sentiments, made 
by tones and gestures, has this advantage above that made by 
words, that it is the language of nature. It is that method of 
interpreting our mind which nature has dictated to all, and 
which is understood by all ; whereas words are only arbitrary 
conventional symbols of our ideas ; and by consequence, must 
make a more feeble impression. So true is this, that to render 
words fully significant, they must, almost in every case, receive 
some aid from the manner of Pronunciation and Delivery ; and 
he who, in speaking, should employ bare words, without en- 
forcing them by proper tones and accents, would leave us with a 



386 PKONUNCIATION, [LECT. XXXIII. 

faint and indistinct impression, often with a doubtful and am- 
biguous conception, of what he had delivered. Nay, so close is 
the connexion between certain sentiments and the proper 
manner of pronouncing them, that he who does not pronounce 
them after that manner, can never persuade us, that he believes, 
or feels, the sentiments themselves, His Delivery may be such 
as to give the lie to all that he asserts. When Marcus Callidius 
accused one of an attempt to poison him, but enforced his accu- 
sation in a languid manner, and without any warmth or earnest- 
ness of Delivery, Cicero, who pleaded for the accused person, 
improved this into an argument of the falsity of the charge, 
" An tu, M. Cillidi, nisi fingeres, sic ageres ?" In Shakspeare's 
Richard II. the Duchess of York thus impeaches the sincerity of 
her husband : 

Pleads he in earnest ! Look upon his face ; 

His eyes do drop no tears ; his prayers are jest ; 

His words come from his mouth ; ours, from our breast ; 

He prays but faintly, and would be denied ; 

We pray with heart and soul. 

But I believe, it is needless to say any more in order to show 
the high importance of a good Delivery. I proceed, therefore, 
to such observations as appear to me most useful to be made on 
this head. 

The great objects which every Public Speaker will naturally 
have in his eye in forming his Delivery, are, first, to speak so as 
to be fully and easily understood by all who hear him ; and next, 
to speak with grace and force, so as to please and move his 
Audience. Let us consider what is most important with respect 
to each of these.* 

In order to be fully and easily understood, the four chief re- 
quisites are, a due degree of Loudness of Voice ; Distinctness ; 
Slowness ; and Propriety of Pronunciation. 

The first attention of every Public Speaker, doubtless, must 
be to make himself be heard by all those to whom he speaks. 
He must endeavour to fill with his voice the space occupied by 
the Assembly. This power of voice, it may be thought, is 
wholly a natural talent. It is so in a good measure ; but, how- 
ever, may receive considerable assistance from art. Much de- 
pends for this purpose on the proper pitch and management of 
the voice. Every man has three pitches in his voice ; the 
High, the Middle, and the Low one. The High, is that which 
he uses in calling aloud to some one at a distance. The Low is, 
when he approaches to a whisper. The Middle is, that which he 
employs in common conversation, and which he should generally 
use in Public Discourse. For it is a great mistake, to imagine 
that one must take the highest pitch of his voice, in order to be 

* On this whole subject, Mr. Sheridan's Lectures on Elocution are very worthy of 
being consulted ; and several hints are here taken from them. 



LECT. XXXIII.] OR DELIVERY. 387 

well heard by a great Assembly. This is confounding two 
things which are different, Loudness, or Strength of Sound, 
with the key, or note on which we speak. A Speaker may ren- 
der his voice louder, without altering the key ; and we shall 
always be able to give most body, most persevering force of 
sound, to that pitch of voice to which in conversation we are 
accustomed. Whereas, by setting out on our highest pitch or 
key, we certainly allow ourselves less compass, and are likely to 
strain our voice before we have done. We shall fatigue our- 
selves, and speak with pain ; and whenever a man speaks with 
pain to himself, he is always heard with pain by his Audience. 
Give the voice, therefore, full strength and swell of sound ; but 
always pitch it on your ordinary speaking key. Make it a con- 
stant rule never to utter a greater quantity of voice, than you 
can afford without pain to yourselves, and without any extraor- 
dinary effort. As long as you keep within these bounds, the 
other organs of speech will be at liberty to discharge their 
several offices with ease ; and you will always have your voice 
under command. But whenever you transgress these bounds, 
you give up the reins, and have no longer any management of it. 
It is an useful rule too, in order to be well heard, to fix our eye 
on some of the most distant persons in the assembly, and to con- 
sider ourselves as speaking to them. We naturally and mecha- 
nically utter our words with such a degree of strength, as to 
make ourselves be heard by one to whom we address ourselves, 
provided he be within the reach of our voice. As this is the 
case in common conversation, it will hold also in Public Speaking. 
But remember, that in public as well as in conversation, it is 
possible to offend by speaking too loud. This extreme hurts the 
ear, by making the voice come upon it in rumbling indistinct 
masses ; besides its giving the Speaker the disagreeable appear- 
ance of one who endeavours to compel assent, by mere vehemence 
and force of sound. 

In the next place, to being well heard, and clearly understood, 
distinctness of articulation contributes more, perphaps, than mere 
loudness of sound. The quantity of sound necessary to fill 
even a large space, is smaller than is commonly imagined : and 
with distinct articulation, a man of a weak voice will make it 
reach farther than the strongest voice can reach without it. To 
this, therefore, every Public Speaker ought to pay great atten- 
tion. He must give every sound which he utters its due pro- 
portion, and make every syllable, and even every letter in the 
word which he pronounces, be heard distinctly ; without slurring, 
whispering, or suppressing any of the proper sounds. 

In the third place, in order to articulate distinctly, modera- 
tion is requisite with regard to the speed of pronouncing. Pre- 
cipitancy of Speech confounds all articulation, and all meaning. 
I need scarcely observe, that there may be also an extreme on 
the opposite side. It is obvious, that a lifeless, drawling Pro- 



388 PRONUNCIATION, [LECT. XXXIII. 

nunciation, which allows the minds of the hearers to be always 
outrunning the Speaker, must render every discourse insipid 
and fatiguing. But the extreme of speaking too fast is much 
more common, and requires the more to be guarded against, 
because when it has grown up into a habit, few errors are more 
difficult to be corrected. To pronounce with a proper degree of 
slowness, and with a full and clear Articulation, is the first thing 
to be studied by all who begin to speak in public ; and cannot be 
too much recommended to them. Such a Pronunciation gives 
weight and dignity to their Discourse. It is a great assistance 
to the voice, by the pauses and rests which it allows it more 
easily to make; and it enables the Speaker to swell all his 
sounds both with more force and more music. It assists him 
also in preserving a due command of himself; whereas a rapid 
and hurried manner is apt to excite the flutter of spirits, which 
is the greatest enemy to all right execution in the way of Ora- 
tory. " Promptum sit os," says Quinctilian, " Non praeceps, 
moderatum, non lentum." 

After these fundamental attention to the pitch and manage- 
ment of the voice, to distinct articulation, and to a proper degree 
of slowness of speech, what a Public Speaker must, in the 
fourth place, study, is propriety of Pronunciation ; or the giving 
to every word which he utters, that sound, which the most 
polite usage of the language appropriates to it ; in opposition to 
broad, vulgar, or provincial Pronunciation. This is requisite 
both for speaking intelligibly, and for speaking with grace or 
beauty. Instructions concerning this article can be given by 
the living voice only. But there is one observation, which it 
may not be improper here to make. In the English language, 
every word which consists of more syllables than one, has one 
accented syllable. The accent rest sometimes on the vowel, 
sometimes on the consonant. Seldom, or never, is there more 
than one accented syllable in any English word, however long ; 
and the genius of the language requires the voice to mark that 
syllable by a stronger percussion, and to pass more slightly over 
the rest. Now, after we have learned the proper seats of these 
accents, it is an important rule, to give every word just the same 
accent in Public Speaking, as in Common Discourse. Many 
persons err in this respect. When they speak in Public, and 
with solemnity, they pronounce the syllables in a different 
manner from what they do at other times. They dwell upon 
them, and protract them; they multiply accents on the same 
word ; from a mistaken notion, that it gives gravity and force to 
their discourse, and adds to the pomp of Public Declamation. 
Whereas, this is one of the greatest faults that can be committed 
in Pronunciation ; it makes what is called a theatrical or mouth- 
ing manner ; and gives an artificial affected air to Speech, which 
detracts greatly both from its agreeableness, and its impression. 

I proceed to treat next of those higher parts of delivery, by 



LECT. XXXIII.] OR DELIVERY. , 389 

studying which, a Speaker has something farther in view than 
merely to render himself intelligible, and seeks to give grace and 
force to what he utters. These may be comprised under four 
heads, Emphasis, Pauses, Tones, and Gestures. Let me only 
premise in general, to what I am to say concerning them, that 
attention to these articles of Delivery is by no means to be 
confined, as some might be apt to imagine, to the more elaborate 
and pathetic parts of a Discourse. There is, perhaps, as great 
attention requisite, and as much skill displayed, in adapting 
Emphasis, Pauses, Tones, and Gestures, properly, to calm and 
plain speaking ; and the effect of a just and graceful Delivery 
will, in every part of a subject, be found of high importance for 
commanding attention, and enforcing what is spoken. 

First, Let us consider Emphasis ; by this, is meant a stronger 
and fuller sound of voice, by which" we distinguish the accented 
syllable of some word, on which we design to lay particular 
stress, and to show how it affects the rest of the Sentence. 
Sometimes the emphatic word must be distinguished by a par- 
ticular tone of voice, as well as by a stronger accent. On the 
right management of the Emphasis depend the whole life and 
spirit of every Discourse. If no Emphasis be placed on any 
words, not only is Discourse rendered heavy and lifeless, but the 
meaning left often ambiguous. If the Emphasis be placed 
wrong, we pervert and confound the meaning wholly. To give a 
common instance ; such a simple question as this, " Do you ride 
to town to-day?" is capable of no fewer than four different- 
acceptations, according as the Emphasis is differently placed on 
the words. If it be pronounced thus : " Do you ride to town 
to-day ? the answer may naturally be, No ; I send my servant in 
my stead. If thus : Do you ride to town to-day ? Answer, No 
I intend to walk. Do you ride to town to-day ? No ; I ride 
out into the fields. Do you ride to town to-day ? No ; but I 
shall to-morrow. In like manner, in solemn Discourse, the 
whole force and beauty of an expression often depend on the 
accented word ; and we may present to the hearers quite 
different views of the same Sentiment, by placing the Emphasis 
differently. In the following words of our Saviour, observe in 
what different lights the thought is placed, according as the 
words are pronounced : " Judas, betrayest thou the Son of Man 
with a kiss?" betrayest thou — makes the reproach turn on the 
infamy of treachery. Betrayest thou — makes it rest, upon 
Judas's connexion with his master. Betrayest thou the Son of 
Man — rests it, upon our Saviour's personal character and emi- 
nence. Betrayest thou the son of Man with a kiss ? — turns it 
upon his prostituting the signal of peace and friendship, to the 
purpose of a mark of destruction. 

In order to acquire the proper management of the Emphasis, 
the great rule, and indeed the only rule possible to be given is, 
that the Speaker study to attain a just conception of the force 



390 PRONUNCIATION, [LECT. XXXIII. 

and spirit of those sentiments which he is to pronounce. For 
to lay the Emphasis, with exact propriety, is a constant exercise 
of good sense and attention. It is far from being an incon- 
siderable attainment. It is one of the greatest trials of a true 
and just taste ; and must arise from feeling delicately ourselves, 
and from judging accurately, of what is fittest to strike the 
feelings of others. There is as great a difference between a 
Chapter of the Bible, or any other piece of plain prose, read by 
one who places the several Emphases every where with taste 
and judgment, and by one who neglects or mistakes them, as 
there is between the same tune played by the most masterly 
hand, or by the most bungling performer. 

In all prepared Discourses, it would be of great use, if they 
were read over or rehearsed in private, with this particular view, 
to search for the proper Emphases before they were pronounced 
in public ; marking, at the same time, with a pen, the emphatical 
words in every sentence, or at least in the most weighty and 
affecting parts of the Discourse, and fixing them well in memory. 
Were this attention oftener bestowed, were this part of Pronun- 
ciation studied with more exactness, and not left to the moment 
of delivery, as is commonly done, Public Speakers would find 
their care abundantly repaid, by the remarkable effects which it 
would produce upon their Audience. Let me caution, at the 
same time, against one error, that of multiplying emphatical 
words too much. It is only by a prudent reserve in the use of 
them, that we can give them any weight. If they recur too 
often, if a speaker attempts to render every thing which he says 
of high importance, by a multitude of strong Emphases, we soon 
learn to pay little regard to them. To crowd every Sentence 
with emphatical words, is like crowding all the pages of a Book 
with Italic Characters, which, as to the effect, is just the same 
with using no such distinctions at all. 

Next to Emphasis, the Pauses in Speaking demand attention. 
These are of two kinds ; first, Emphatical Pauses ; and next, 
such as mark the distinctions of Sense. An Emphatical Pause 
is made, after something has been said of peculiar moment, and 
on which we want to fix the hearers attention. Sometimes 
before such a thing is said, we usher it in with a pause of this 
nature. Such pauses have the same effect as a strong Emphasis ; 
and are subject to the same rules ; especially to the caution just 
now given, of not repeating them too frequently. For as they 
excite uncommon attention, and of course raise the expectation, 
if the importance of the matter be not fully answerable to such 
expectation, they occasion disappointment and disgust. 

But the most frequent and the principal use of pauses, is to 
mark the divisions of the sense, and at the same time to allow 
the Speaker to draw his breath ; and the proper and graceful 
adjustment of such pauses, is one of the most nice and difficult 
articles in Delivery. In all Public Speaking, the management 






LECT. XXXIII.] OR DELIVERY. 391 

of the breath requires a good deal of care, so as not to be obliged 
to divide words from one another, which have so intimate a con- 
nection, that they ought to be pronounced with the same breath, 
and without the least separation. Many a sentence is miserably 
mangled, and the force of the Emphasis totally lost, by divisions 
being made in the wrong place. To avoid this, every one, while 
he is speaking, should be very careful to provide a full supply of 
breath for what he is to utter. It is a great mistake to imagine, 
that the breath must be drawn only at the end of a period, when 
the voice is allowed to fall. It may easily be gathered at the 
intervals of the period, when the voice is only suspended for a 
moment ; and, by this management, one may have always a suf- 
ficient stock for carrying on the longest sentence, without im- 
proper interruptions. 

If any one, in Public Speaking, shall have formed to himself a 
certain melody or tune, which requires rest and pauses of its 
own, distinct from those of the sense, he has, undoubtedly, con- 
tracted one of the worst habits into which a Public Speaker can 
fall. It is the sense which should always rule the pauses of the 
voice ; for wherever there is any sensible suspension of the voice, 
the hearer is always led to expect somewhat coresponding in the 
meaning. Pauses, in Public Discourse, must be formed upon the 
manner in which we utter ourselves in ordinary sensible conver- 
sation ; and not upon the stiff artificial manner which we acquire, 
from reading books according to the common punctuation. The 
general run of punctuation is very arbitrary ; often capricious 
and false ; and dictates an uniformity of tone in the pauses, 
which is extremely disagreeable : for we are to observe, that to 
render pauses graceful and expressive, they must not only be 
made in the right place, but also be accompanied with a proper 
tone of voice, by which the nature of these pauses is intimated ; 
much more than by the length of them, which can never be 
exactly measured. Sometimes it is only a slight and simple sus- 
pension of voice that is proper ; sometimes a degree of cadence in 
the voice is required ; and sometimes that peculiar tone and 
cadence, which denote the sentence finished. In all these cases, 
we are to. regulate ourselves, by attending to the manner in 
which Nature teaches us to speak, when engaged in real and 
earnest discourse with others. 

When we are reading or reciting verse, there is a peculiar 
difficulty in making the pauses justly. The difficulty arises from 
the melody of verse, which dictates to the ear pauses or rests of 
its own ; and to adjust and compound these properly with the 
pauses of the sense, so as neither to hurt the ear, nor offend the 
understanding, is so very nice a matter, that it is no wonder we 
so seldom meet with good readers of poetry. There are two 
kinds of pauses that belong to the music of verse ; one is, the 
pause at the end of the line ; and the other, the caesural pause in 
the middle of it. With regard to the pause at the end of the 



392 PRONUNCIATION, [LECT. XXXIII. 

line ; which marks that strain or verse to be finished, rhyme 
renders this always sensible, and in some measure compels us to 
observe it in our Pronunciation. In blank verse, where there is a 
greater liberty permitted of running the lines into one another, 
sometimes without any suspension in the sense, it has been made 
a question, Whether in reading such verse with propriety, any 
regard at all should be paid to the close of a line ? On the Stage, 
where the appearance of speaking in verse should always be 
avoided, there can, I think, be no doubt, that the close of such 
lines as make no pause in the sense, should not be rendered per- 
ceptible to the ear. But on other occasions, this were improper : 
for what is the use of melody, or for what end has the Poet 
composed in verse, if, in reading his lines, we suppress his num- 
bers ; and degrade them, by our pronunciation, into mere prose f 
We ought, therefore, certainly to read blank verse so as to make 
every line sensible to the ear. At the same time, in doing so, 
every appearance of sing-song and tone must be carefully guarded 
against. The close of the line, where it makes no pause in the 
meaning, ought to be marked, not by such a tone as is used in 
finishing a sentence ; but without either letting the voice fall, or 
elevating it, it should be marked only by such a slight suspen- 
sion of sound, as may distinguish the passage from one line to 
another without injuring the meaning. 

The other kind of musical pause, is, that which falls some- 
where about the middle of the verse, and divides it into two 
hemistichs ; a pause, not so great as that which belongs to the 
close of the line, but still sensible to an ordinary ear. This, 
which is called the caesural pause, in the French heroic verse 
falls uniformly in the middle of the line. In the English, it may 
fall after the 4th, 5th, 6th, or 7th syllables in the line, and no 
other. Where the verse is so constructed, that this caesural 
pause coincides with the slightest pause or division in the sense, 
the line can be read easily ; as in the two first verses of Mr. 
Pope's Messiah : 

Ye nymphs of Solyma ! begin the song ; 
To heavenly themes, sublimer strains belong. 

But if it shall happen that words, which have such a strict and 
intimate connection as not to bear even a momentary separation, 
are divided from one another by this caesural pause, we then feel 
a sort of struggle between the sense and the sound, which ren- 
ders it difficult to read such lines gracefully. The rule of proper 
Pronunciation in such cases is, to regard only the pause which 
the sense forms ; and to read the line accordingly. The neglect 
of the caesural pause may make the line sound somewhat un- 
harmoniously ; but the effect would be much worse, if the sense 
were sacrificed to the sound. For instance, in the following line 
of Milton : 



LECT. XXXIII.] OR DELIVERY. 393 

What in me is dark, 
Illumine ; what is low, raise and support. 

The sense clearly dictates the pause after "illumine," at the end 
of the third syllable, which, in reading, ought to be made accord- 
ingly ; though, if the melody only were to be regarded, "illumine" 
should be connected with what follows, and the pause not made 
till the 4th or 6th syllable. So in the following line of Mr. 
Pope's (Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot) : 

I sit, with sad civility I read — 

The ear plainly points out the caesural pause, as falling after 
" sad," the 4th syllable. But it would be very bad reading to 
make any pause there, so as to separate " sad " and " civility." 
The sense admits of no other pause than after the second syl- 
lable " sit," which therefore must be the only pause made in 
the reading. 

I proceed to treat next of Tones in Pronunciation, which are 
different both from emphasis and pauses ; consisting in the mo- 
dulation of the voice, the notes or variations of sound which we 
employ in Public Speaking. How much of the propriety, the 
force and grace of Discourse, must depend on these, will appear 
from this single consideration ; that to almost every sentiment 
we utter, more especially to every strong emotion, Nature hath 
adapted some peculiar tone of voice ; insomuch, that he who 
should tell another that he was very angry, or much grieved, in 
a tone which did not suit such emotions, instead of being believed, 
would be laughed at. Sympathy is one of the most powerful 
principles by which Persuasive Discourse works its effect. The 
Speaker endeavours to transfuse into his hearers his own senti- 
ments and emotions ; which he can never be successful in doing, 
unless he utters them in such a manner as to convince the hearers 
that he feels them.* The proper expresssion of tones, therefore, 
deserve's to be attentively studied by every one who would b^a ^ 
successful Orator. 

The greatest and most material instruction which can be given 
for this purpose is, to form the tones of Public Speaking upon 
the tones of sensible and animated conversation. We may ob- 
serve, that every man, when he is much in earnest in common 

* "All that passes in the mind of man may be reduced to two classes, which I call 
Ideas and Emotions. By Ideas, I mean all thoughts which rise and pass in succession 
in the mind. By Emotions, all exertions of the mind in arranging, combining, and 
separating its ideas ; as well as all the effects produced on the mind itself by those ideas, 
from the more violent agitation of the passions, to the calmer feelings produced by the 
operation of the intellect and the fancy. In short, thought is the object of the one, 
internal feeling of the other. That which serves to express the former, I call the Lan- 
guage of Ideas ; and the latter, the Language of Emotions. Words are the signs of the 
one, tones of the other. Without the use of these two sorts of Language, it is impossible 
to communicate through the ear all that passes in the mind of man." 

Sheridan on the Art of Reading. 
E E 



394 PRONUNCIATION, [LECT. XXXII T. 

Discourse, when he is engaged in speaking on some subject which 
interests him nearly, has an eloquent or persuasive tone and 
manner. What is the reason of our being often so frigid and 
unpersuasive in Public Discourse, but our departing from the 
natural tone of Speaking, and delivering ourselves in an affected 
artificial manner. Nothing can be more absurd than to imagine, 
thaj; as soon as one mounts a Pulpit, or rises in a Public Assem- 
bly, he is instantly to lay aside the voice with which he expresses 
himself in private ; to assume a new, studied tone, and a cadence 
altogether foreign to his natural manner. This has vitiated all 
delivery ; this has given rise to cant and tedious monotony, in 
the different kinds of modern Public Speaking, especially in the 
pulpit. Men departed from Nature ; and sought to give a beauty 
or force, as they imagined, to their Discourse by substituting 
certain studied musical tones, in the room of the genuine expres- 
sions of sentiment, which the voice carries in natural Discourse. 
Let every Public Speaker guard against this error. Whether 
he speak in a private room, or in a great Assembly, let him 
remember that he still speaks. Follow Nature ; consider how 
she teaches you to utter any sentiment or feeling of your heart. 
Imagine a subject of debate started in conversation among grave 
and wise men, and yourself bearing a share in it. Think after 
what manner, with what tones and inflexions of voice, you would 
on such an occasion express yourself, when you were most in 
earnest, and sought most to be listened to. Carry these with 
you to the Bar, to the Pulpit, or to any Public Assembly ; let 
these be the foundation of your manner of pronouncing there ; 
and you will take the surest method of rendering your delivery 
both agreeable and persuasive. 

I have said, Let these conversation tones be the foundation of 
Public Pronunciation : for, on some occasions, solemn Public 
Speaking requires them to be exalted beyond the strain of com- 
mon Discourse. In a formal studied Oration, the elevation of 
the Style, and the harmony of the sentences, prompt, almost 
necessarily, a modulation of voice more rounded, and bordering 
more upon music, than conversation admits. This gives rise to 
what is called the Declaiming Manner. But though this mode 
of Pronunciation runs considerably beyond ordinary Discourse, 
yet still it must have for its basis, the natural tones of grave and 
dignified conversation. I must observe, at the same time, that 
the constant indulgence of a declamatory manner is not favour- 
able either to a good composition, or good delivery ; and is in 
hazard of betraying Public Speakers into that monotony of tone 
and cadence, which is so generally complained of. Whereas, he 
who forms the general run of his delivery upon a speaking 
manner, is not likely ever to become disagreeable through 
monotony. He will have the same natural variety in his tones, 
which a person has in conversation. Indeed, the perfection of 
delivery requires both these different manners, that of speaking 



LECT. XXXIII.] OR DELIVERY. 395 

with liveliness and ease, and that of declaiming with stateliness 
and dignity, to be possessed by one man ; and to be employed 
by him, according as the different parts of his Discourse require 
either the one or the other. This is a perfection which is not 
attained by many : the greatest part of Public Speakers allow- 
ing their delivery to be formed altogether accidentally ; accord- 
ing as some turn of voice appears to them most beautiful, or some 
artificial model has caught their fancy ; and acquiring, by this 
means, a habit of Pronunciation, which they can never vary. 
But the capital direction, which ought never to be forgotten, is, 
to copy the proper tones for expressing every sentiment from 
those which Nature dictates to us, in conversation with others ; 
to speak always with her voice ; and not to form to ourselves a 
fantastic public manner, from an absurd fancy of its being more 
beautiful than a natural one.* 

It now remains to treat of Gesture, or what is called Action 
in Public Discourse. Some nations animate their words in 
common conversation, with many more motions of the body than 
others do. The French and the Italians are, in this respect, 
much more sprightly than we. But there is no nation, hardly 
any person, so phlegmatic, as not to accompany their words with 
some actions and gesticulations, on all occasions when they are 
much in earnest. It is therefore unnatural in a Public Speaker, 
it is inconsistent with that earnestness and seriousness which he 
ought to show in all affairs of moment, to remain quite un- 
moved in his outward appearance, and to let the words drop from 
his mouth, without any expression of meaning, or warmth in his 
gesture. 

The fundamental rule as to propriety of action, is undoubt- 
edly the same with what I gave as to propriety of tone. Attend 
to the looks and gestures, in which earnestness, indignation, 
compassion, or any other emotion, discovers ^itself to most 
advantage in the common intercourse of men ; and let these be 
your, model. Some of these looks and gestures are common to 
all men ; and there are also certain peculiarities of manner which 
distinguish every individual. A public Speaker must take that 
manner which is most natural to himself. For it is here, just 
as in tones. It is not the business of a Speaker to form to 
himself a certain set of motions and gestures, which he thinks 
most becoming and agreeable, and to practise these in public, 
without their having any correspondence to the manner which is 
natural to him in private. His gestures and motions ought all 

* u Loquere," (says an author of the last century, who has written a treatise in 
'Verse, de Gestu et Voce Oratoris,) 

" Loquere ; hoc vitium commune, loquatur 
Ut nemo ; at tensa, declamitet omnia voce. 
Tu loquere, ut mos est hominum ; boat et latrat ille ; 
Ille ululat ; rudit hie ; (fari si talia dignum est) 
Non hominem vox ulla sonat ratione loquentem." 

Johannes Lucas, de Gestu et Voce, lib. ii. Paris, 1675. 
E E 2 



396 PRONUNCIATION, [LECT. XXXIII. 

to carry that kind of expression which nature has dictated to 
him ; and unless this be the case, it is impossible, by means of 
any study, to avoid their appearing stiff and forced. 

However, although nature must be the groundwork, I admit 
that there is room in this matter for some study and art. For 
many persons are naturally ungraceful in the motions which they 
make; and this ungracefulness might, in part at least, be re- 
formed by application and care. The study of action in Public 
Speaking, consists chiefly in guarding against awkward and 
disagreeable motions, and in learning to perform such as are 
natural to the Speaker, in the most becoming manner. For this 
end it has been advised by writers on this subject, to practise 
before a mirror, where one may see and judge of his own ges- 
tures. But I am afraid persons are not always the best judges 
of the gracefulness of their own motions ; and one may declaim 
long enough before a mirror, without correcting any of his 
faults. The judgment of a friend, whose good taste they, can 
trust, will be found of much greater advantage to beginners, 
than any mirror they can use. With regard to particular rules 
concerning action and gesticulation, Quinctilian has delivered a 
great many, in the last chapter of the Eleventh Book of his 
Institutions ; and all the modern writers on this subject have 
done little else but translate them. I am not of opinion that 
such rules, delivered either by the voice or on paper, can be of 
much use, unless persons saw them exemplified before their 



I shall only add further on this head, that, in order to succeed 
well in Delivery, nothing is more necessary than for a Speaker 
to guard against a certain flutter of spirits, which is peculiarly 
incident to those who begin to speak in public, He must en- 
deavour above all things to be recollected, and master of himself. 

* The few following hints only 1 shall adventure to throw out, in case they may 
be of any service. When speaking in public, one should study to preserve as much 
dignity as possible, in tbe whole attitude of the body. An erect posture is generally to 
be chosen ; standing firm, so as to have the fullest and freest command of all his 
motions ; any inclination which is used should be forwards towards the hearers, which 
is a natural expression of earnestness. As for the countenance, the chief rule is, that it 
should correspond with the nature of the discourse, and when no particular emotion is 
expressed, a serious and manly look is always the best. The eyes should never be 
fixed close on any one object, but move easily round the audience. In the motions 
made with the hands consists the chief part of gesture in Speaking. The ancients 
condemned all motions performed by the left hand alone ; but I am not sensible that 
these are always offensive, though it is natural for the right hand to be more frequently 
employed. Warm emotions demand the motion of both hands corresponding together. 
But whether one gesticulates with one or with both hands, it is an important rule, that 
all his motions should be free and easy. Narrow and straitened movements are gene- 
rally ungraceful ; for which reason, motions made with the hands are directed to proceed 
from the shoulder rather than from the elbow. Perpendicular movements too with the 
hands, that is, in the straight line up and down, which Shakspeare, in Hamlet, calls 
" sawing the air with the hand," are seldom good. Oblique motions, are, in general, 
the most graceful. Too sudden and nimble motions should be likewise avoided. Ear- 
nestness can be fully expressed without them. Shakspeare's directions on this head are 
full of good sense ; " use all gently," says be ; " and in the very torrent and tempest of 
passion, acquire a temperance that may give it smoothness." 



LECT. XXXIII.] OR DELIVERY. 397 

For this end, he will find nothing of more use to him than to 
study to become wholly engaged in his subject; to be possessed 
with a sense of its importance or seriousness ; to be concerned 
much more to persuade than to please. He will generally please 
most, when pleasing is not his sole nor chief aim. This is the 
only rational and proper method of raising one's self above that 
timid and bashful regard to an audience, which is so ready to 
disconcert a Speaker, both as to what he is to say, and as to his 
manner of saying it. 

I cannot conclude without an earnest admonition to guard 
against all affectation, which is the certain ruin of good Delivery. 
Let your manner, whatever it is, be your own ; neither imitated 
from another, nor assumed upon some imaginary model, which is 
unnatural to you. Whatever is native, even though accompanied 
with several defects, yet is likely to please ; because it shows 
us a man ; because it has .the appearance of coming from the 
heart. Whereas a Delivery, attended with several acquired 
graces and beauties, if it be not easy and free, if it betray the 
marks of art and affectation, never fails to disgust. To attain 
any extremely correct and perfectly graceful Delivery, is what 
few can expect ; so many natural talents being requisite to con- 
cur in forming it. But to attain, what as to the effect is very 
little inferior, a forcible and persuasive manner, is within the 
power of most persons ; if they will only unlearn false and 
corrupt habits ; if they will allow themselves to follow Nature, 
and speak in public as they do in private, when they speak in 
earnest and from the heart. If one has naturally any gross 
defects in his voice or gestures, he begins at the wrong end, if 
he attempts at reforming them only when he is to speak in 
public. He should begin with rectifying them in his private 
manner of Speaking ; and then carry to the public the right 
habit he has formed, iTor, when a Speaker is engaged in a 
Public Discourse, he should not be then employing his attention 
about his manner, or thinking of his tones and his gestures. If he 
be so employed, study and affectation will appear. He ought to 
be then quite in earnest ; wholly occupied with his subject and 
his sentiments ; leaving Nature, and previously formed habits, 
to prompt and suggest his manner of Delivery. 



398 MEANS OF IMPROVING [LECT. XXXIV. 

LECTUKE XXXIY. 

MEANS OF IMPROVING IN ELOQUENCE. 

I have now treated fully of the different kinds of Public 
Speaking, of the Composition, and of the Delivery of a Dis- 
course. Before I finish this subject, it may be of use to suggest 
some things concerning the properest means of Improvement in 
the Art of Public Speaking, and the most necessary studies for 
that purpose. 

To be an Eloquent Speaker, in the proper sense of the word, 
is far from being a common or an easy attainment. Indeed, to 
compose a florid harangue on some popular topic, and to deliver 
it so as to amuse an Audience, is a matter not very difficult. 
But though some praise be due to this, yet the idea which I 
have endeavoured to give of Eloquence is much higher. It is a 
great exertion of the human powers. It is the art of being per- 
>■■ suasive and commanding ; the Art, not of pleasing the fancy 
merely ; but of speaking both to the understanding and to the 
heart ; of interesting the hearers in such a degree, as to seize 
and carry them along with us ; and to leave them with a deep 
and strong impression of what they have heard. How many 
talents, natural and acquired, must concur for carrying this to 
perfection ? A strong, lively, and warm imagination ; quick 
sensibility of heart, joined with solid judgment, good sense, and 
presence of mind ; all improved by great and long attention to 
Style and Composition ; and supported also by the exterior, yet 
important qualifications, of a graceful manner, a presence not 
ungainly, and a full and tuneable voice. How little reason to 
wonder, that a perfect and accomplished Orator should be one of 
the characters that is most rarely to be found ? 

Let us not despair however. Between mediocrity and per- 
fection there is a very wide interval. There are many inter- 
mediate spaces, which may be filled up with honour ; and the 
more rare and difficult that complete perfection is, the greater is 
the honour of approaching to it, though we do not fully attain 
it. The number of Orators who stand in the highest class is, 
perhaps, smaller than the number of Poets who are foremost in 
poetic fame ; but the study of Oratory has this advantage above 
that of Poetry, that, in Poetry, one must be an eminently good 
performer, or he is not supportable : 

Mediocribus esse Poetis 
Non homines, non Di, non concessere columnae.* 

In Eloquence this does not hold. There, one may possess a 
moderate station with dignity. Eloquence admits of a great 

* For God and Man, and lettered post denies, 

That Poets ever are of middling size. Francis. 



LECT. XXXIV.] IX ELOQUEXCE. 399 

many different forms; plain and simple, as well as high and 
pathetic ; and a genius that cannot reach the latter, may shine 
with much reputation and usefulness in the former. 

Whether Nature or Art contribute most to form an Orator, 
is a trifling inquiry. In all attainments whatever, Nature must 
be the prime agent. She must bestow the original talents. 
She must sow the seeds ; but culture is requisite for bringing 
these seeds to perfection. Nature must always have done some- 
what ; but a great deal will always be left to be done by Art. 
This is certain, that study and discipline are more necessary for 
the improvement of natural genius in Oratory, than they are in 
Poetry. What I mean is, that though Poetry be capable of re- 
ceiving assistance from Critical Art, yet a Poet without any aid 
from Art, by the force of genius alone, can rise higher than 
a Public Speaker can do, who has never given attention to the 
rules of Style, Composition, and Delivery. Homer formed him- 
self; Demosthenes and Cicero were formed by the help of much 
labour, and of many assistances derived from the labour of 
others. After these preliminary observations, let us proceed to 
the main design of this Lecture; to treat of the means to be 
used for improvement in Eloquence. 

In the first place, What stands highest in the order of means, 
is personal character and disposition. In order to be a truly 
eloquent or persuasive Speaker, nothing is more necessary than 
to be a virtuous man. This was a favourite position among the 
ancient Rhetoricians : " Non posse Oratorem esse nisi virum 
bonum." 

To find any such connexion between virtue and one of the 
highest liberal arts, must give pleasure ; and it can, I think, be 
clearly shown, that this is not a mere topic of declamation, but 
that the connexion here alleged, is undoubtedly founded in truth 
and reason. 

For, consider first, Whether anything contribute more to per- 
suasion, than the opinion which we entertain of the probity, dis- 
interestedness, candour, and other good moral qualities of the 
person who endeavours to persuade ? These give weight and 
force to every thing which he utters ; nay, they add a beauty 
to it ; they dispose us to listen with attention and pleasure, and 
create a secret partiality in favour of that side which he 
espouses. Whereas, if we entertain a suspicion of craft and 
disingenuity, of a corrupt, or a base mind, in the Speaker, his 
Eloquence loses all its real effect. It may entertain and amuse ; 
but it is viewed as artifice, as trick, as the play only of Speech ; 
and, viewed in this light, whom can it persuade? We even 
read a book with more pleasure, when we think favourably 
of its Author ; but when we have the living Speaker before 
our eyes, addressing us personally on some subject of im- 
portance, the opinion we entertain of his character must have a 
much more powerful effect. 



400 MEANS OF IMPROVING [LECT. XXXIV. 

But, lest it should be said, that this relates only to the 
character of Virtue, which one may maintain, without being at 
bottom a truly worthy man, I must observe farther, that besides 
the weight which it adds to Character, real Virtue operates also, 
in other ways, to the advantage of Eloquence. 

First, nothing is so favourable as Virtue to the prosecution of 
honourable studies. It prompts a generous emulation to excel ; it 
inures to industry ; it leaves the mind vacant and free, master of 
itself, disencumbered of those bad passions, and disengaged from 
those mean pursuits, which have ever been found the greatest 
enemies to true proficiency. Quinctilian has touched this consi- 
I deration very properly : " Quod si agrorum nimia cura, et sollici- 
tior rei familiaris diligentia, et vencndi voluptas, & dati spectaculis 
dies, multum studiis auferunt, quid putamus facturas cupidita- 
tem, avaritiam, invidiam ? Nihil enim est tarn occupatum, tarn 
multiforme, tot ac tarn variis affectibus concisum, atque lacera- 
tum, quam mala ac improba mens. Quis inter haec, Uteris, aut 
ulli bonae arti, locus ? Non hercle magis quam frugibus, in 
terra sentibus ac rubis occupata."* 

But, besides this consideration, there is another of still higher 
importance, though I am not sure of its being attended to as 
much as it deserves ; namely, that from the fountain of real and 
genuine virtue, are drawn those sentiments which will ever be 
most powerful in affecting the hearts of others. Bad as the 
world is, nothing has so great and universal a command over the 
minds of men as virtue. No kind of Language is so generally 
understood, and so powerfully felt, as the native Language of 
worthy and virtuous feelings. He only, therefore, who possesses 
these full and strong, can speak properly, and in its own language, 
to the heart. On all great subjects and occasions, there is a dignity, 
there is an energy in noble sentiments, which is overcoming and 
irresistible. They give an ardour and a flame to one's Discourse, 
which seldom fails to kindle a like flame in those who hear ; and 
which, more than any other cause, bestows on Eloquence that 
power, for which it is famed, of seizing and transporting an 
Audience. Here, Art and Imitation will not avail. An as- 
sumed character conveys nothing of this powerful warmth. It 
is only a native and unaffected glow of feeling, which can trans- 
mit the emotion to others. Hence, the most renowned Orators, 
such as Cicero and Demosthenes, were no less distinguished for 
some of the high virtues, as public spirit and zeal for their 
country, than for Eloquence. Beyond doubt, to these virtues 

* " If the management of an estate, if anxious attention to domestic economy, a 
passion for hunting, or whole days given up to public places of amusements, consume so 
much time that is due to study, how much greater waste must be occasioned by licen- 
tious desires, avarice, or envy 1 Nothing is so much hurried and agitated, so contra- 
dictory to itself, or so violently torn and shattered by conflicting passions, as a bad 
heart. Amidst the distractions which it produces, what room is left for the cultivation 
of letters, or the pursuit of any honourable art ? No more, assuredly, than there 
is for the growth of corn in a field that is overrun with thorns and brambles." 



LECT. XXXIV.] IN ELOQUENCE. 401 

their Eloquence owed much of its effect ; and those Orations of 
theirs, in which there breathes most of the virtuous and mag- 
nanimous spirit, are those which have most attracted the admira- 
tion of ages. 

Nothing, therefore, is more necessary for those who would 
excel in any of the higher kinds of Oratory, than to cultivate 
habits of the several virtues, and to refine and improve all their 
moral feelings. Whenever these become dead, or callous, they 
may be assured, that on every great occasion, they will speak 
with less power, and less success. The sentiments and disposi- 
tions particularly requisite for them to cultivate, are the 
following: The love of justice and order, and indignation at in- 
solence and oppression; the love of honesty and truth, and 
detestation of fraud, meanness, and corruption ; magnanimity 
of spirit ; the love of liberty, of their country and the public ; 
zeal for all great and noble designs, and reverence for all worthy 
and heroic characters. A cold and sceptical turn of mind is 
extremely adverse to Eloquence ; and no less so, is that cavil- 
ling disposition which takes pleasure in depreciating what 
is great, and ridiculing what is generally admired. Such a dis- 
position bespeaks one not very likely to excel in anything ; but 
least of all in Oratory. A true Orator should be a person of 
generous sentiments, of warm feelings, and of a mind turned to- 
wards the admiration of all those great and high objects, which 
mankind are naturally formed to admire. Joined with the 
manly virtues, he should, at the same time, possess strong and 
tender sensibility to all the injuries, distresses, and sorrows of 
his fellow-creatures ; a heart that can easily relent ; that can 
readily enter into the circumstances of others, and can make 
their case his own. A proper mixture of courage, and of 
modesty, must also be studied by every Public Speaker. Mo- 
desty is essential ; it is always, and justly, supposed to be a con- 
comitant of merit ; and every appearance of it is winning and 
prepossessing. But modesty ought not to run into excessive 
timidity. Every Public Speaker should be able to rest some- 
what on himself; and to assume that air, not of self-complacency, 
but of firmness, which bespeaks a consciousness of his being 
thoroughly persuaded of the truth, or justice, of what he 
delivers ; a circumstance rjf no small consequence for making 
impression on those who hear. 

Next to moral qualifications, what, in the second place, is most 
necessary to an Orator, is a fund of knowledge. Much is this 
inculcated by Cicero and Quinctilian : (i Quod omnibus disciplinis 
et artibus debet esse instructors Orator." By which they mean, 
that he ought to have, what we call, a Liberal Education ; and 
to be formed by a regular study of philosophy, and the polite 
arts. We must never forget that, 

Scribendi recte, sapere est et principium et fons. 



402 MEANS OF IMPKOVING [LECT. XXXIV. 

Good sense and knowledge are the foundation of all good speaking. 
There is no art that can teach one to be eloquent, in any sphere, 
without a sufficient acquaintance with what belongs to that 
sphere ; or if there were an art that made such pretensions, it 
would be mere quackery, like the pretensions of the Sophists of 
old, to teach their disciples to speak for and against every sub- 
ject ; and would be deservedly exploded by all wise men. At- 
tention to Style, to Composition, and all the Arts of Speech, can 
only assist an Orator in setting off, to advantage, the stock of 
materials which he possesses ; but the stock, the materials them- 
selves, must be brought from other quarters than from Rhetoric. 
He who is to plead at the Bar, must make himself thoroughly 
master of the knowledge of the law ; of all the learning and ex- 
perience that can be useful in his profession, for supporting a 
cause, or convincing a judge. He who is to speak from the 
Pulpit, must apply himself closely to the study of divinity, of 
practical religion, of morals, of human nature; that he may be 
rich in all the topics, both of instruction and of persuasion. He 
who would fit himself for being a Member of the Supreme 
Council of the Nation, or of any Public Assembly, must be 
thoroughly acquainted with the business that belongs to such 
an Assembly ; he must study the forms of Court, the course of 
procedure; and must attend minutely to all the facts that may 
be the subject of question or deliberation. 

Besides the knowledge that properly belongs to his profession, 
a Public Speaker, if ever he expects to be eminent, must make 
himself acquainted, as far as his necessary occupations allow, 
with the general circle of polite literature. The study of Poetry 
may be useful to him, on many occasions, for embellishing his 
Style, for suggesting lively images, or agreeable allusions. The 
study of History may be still more useful to him ; as the know- 
ledge of facts, of eminent characters, and of the course of human 
affairs, finds place on many occasions.* There are few great 
occasions of Public Speaking, in which one may not derive 
assistance from cultivated taste, and extensive knowledge ; they 
will often yield him materials for proper ornament ; sometimes, 
for argument and real use. A deficiency of knowledge, even in 
subjects that belong not directly to his own profession, will ex- 
pose him to many disadvantages, and give better qualified rivals 
a great superiority over him. 

Allow me to recommend, in the third place, not only the 
attainment of useful knowledge, but a habit of application and 
industry. Without this, it is impossible to excel in anything. 
We must not imagine, that it is by a sort of mushroom growth, 
that one can rise to be a distinguished Pleader, or Preacher, or 

* " Imprimis vero abundare debet Orator exemplorum copia, cum veterum, turn etiam 
novorum ; adeo ut non modo quae conscripta sunt historiis, aut Sermonibus velut per 
manus tradita, quaeque quotidie aguntur, debeat nosse ; verum ne ea quidem quae a 
clarioribus poetis sunt ficta negligere." Quinct. L. xii. Cap. 4. 



LECT. XXXIV.] IN ELOQUENCE. 403 

Speaker in any Assembly. It is not by starts of application, or 
by a few years preparation of study afterwards discontinued, that 
eminence can be attained. No ; it can be attained only by means 
of regular industry, grown up into a habit, and ready to be 
exerted on every occasion that calls for industry. This is the 
fixed law of our nature ; and he must have a very high opinion 
of his own genius indeed, that can believe himself an exception 
to it. A very wise law of our nature it is ; for industry is, in 
truth the great " Condimentum," the seasoning of every plea- 
sure ; without which life is doomed to languish. Nothing is so 
great an enemy both to honourable attainments, and to the real, 
to the brisk, and spirited enjoyments of life, as that relaxed state 
of mind which arises from indolence and dissipation. 

One that is destined to excel in any art, especially in the arts 
of Speaking and Writing, will be known by this more than by 
any other mark whatever, an enthusiasm for that art ; an enthu- 
siasm which, firing his mind with the object he has in view, will 
dispose him to relish every labour which the means require. It 
was this, that characterised the great men of antiquity ; it is 
this, which must distinguish the Moderns who would tread in 
their steps. This honourable enthusiasm, it is highly necessary 
for such as are studying Oratory to cultivate. If youth wants 
it, manhood will flag miserably. 

In the fourth place, Attention to the best models will con- 
tribute greatly towards improvement. Every one who speaks 
or writes, should, indeed, endeavour to have somewhat that is 
his own, that is peculiar to himself, and that characterises his 
Composition and Style. Slavish Imitation depresses Genius, 
or rather betrays the want of it. But withal, there is no 
Genius so original, but may be profited and assisted by the 
aid of proper examples, in Style, Composition, and Delivery. 
They always open some new ideas ; they serve to enlarge and 
correct our own. They quicken the current of thought, and 
excite emulation. 

Much, indeed, will depend upon the right, choice of models 
which we propose to imitate ; and supposing them rightly chosen, 
a farther care is requisite, of not being seduced by a blind uni- 
versal admiration. For, "decipit exemplar, vitiis imitabile." 
Even in the most finished models we can select, it must not be 
forgotten, that there are always some things improper for imita- 
tion. We should study to acquire a just conception of the pecu- 
liar characteristic beauties of any Writer, or Public Speaker, and 
imitate these only. One ought never to attach himself too 
closely to any single model ; for he who does so, is almost sure 
of being seduced into a faulty and affected imitation. His busi- 
ness should be, to draw from several the proper ideas of perfec- 
tion. Living examples of Public Speaking, in any kind, it will 
not be expected that I should here point out. As to the Writers, 
ancient and modern, from whom benefit may be derived in 



404 MEANS OF IMPROVING [LECT. XXXIV. 

forming Composition and Style, I have spoken so much of them 
in former Lectures, that it is needless to repeat what I have said 
of their virtues and defects. I own, it is to be regretted, that 
the English Language, in which there is much good writing, 
furnishes us, however, with but very few recorded examples of 
eloquent Public Speaking. Among the French, there are more. 
Saurin, Bourdaloue, Flechier, Massillon, particularly the last, 
are eminent for the Eloquence of the Pulpit. But the most 
nervous and sublime of all their Orators is Bossuet, the famous 
Bishop of Meaux ; in whose Oraisons Funebres, there is a very 
high spirit of Oratory.* Some of Fontenelle's Harangues to the 
French Academy, are elegant and agreeable. And at the Bar 
the printed pleadings of Cochin and D'Aguesseau, are highly 
extolled by the late French Critics. 

There is one observation, which it is of importance to make, 
concerning imitation of the Style of any favourite Author, when 
we would carry his Style into Public Speaking. We must 
attend to a very material distinction between written and spoken 
language. These are, in truth, two different manners of com- 
municating ideas. A book that is to be read, requires one sort 
of Style ; a man that is to speak, must use another. In books, 
we look for correctness, precision, all redundancies pruned, all 
repetitions avoided, language completely polished. Speaking 
admits a more easy, copious style, and less fettered by rule; 
repetitions may often be necessary, parenthesis may sometimes 
be graceful ; the same thought must often be placed in different 
views ; as the hearers can catch it only from the mouth of the 
Speaker, and have not the advantage, as in reading a book, of 
turning back again, and of dwelling on what they do not fully 
comprehend. Hence the Style of many good Authors would 
appear stiff, affected, and even obscure, if, by too close an imi- 
tation, we should transfer it to a Popular Oration. How awk- 
ward, for example, would Lord Shaftesbury's sentences sound in 
the mouth of a Public Speaker? Some kinds of Public Dis- 
course, it is true, such as that of the Pulpit, where more exact 
preparation and more studied Style are admitted, would bear 
such a manner better than others which are expected to approach 
more to extemporaneous speaking. But still there is, in general, 
so much difference between Speaking and Composition designed 
only to be read, as should guard us against a close and injudi- 
cious imitation. 

Some Authors there are, whose manner of Writing approaches 
nearer to the Style of Speaking than others ; and who, there- 

* The criticism which M. Crevier, Author of Rhetorique Francoise, passes upon these 
writers whom I have above named, is, Bossuet est grand^, mais inegal ; Flechier est 
plus 6gal, mais moins eleve, et suuvent trop fleuri : Bourdaloue est solide et judicieux, 
mais il neglige les graces legeres : Massillon est plus riche en images, mais moins fort 
en raisonnement. Je souhaite done, que l'orateur ne 'se contente dans limitation d'un 
seul de ces modeles, mais qu'il tache de reunir en lui toutes leurs differentes vertus." 
Vol. ii. chap, derniere. 



LECT. XXXIV.] IN ELOQUENCE. 405 

fore, can be imitated with more safety. In this class, among the 
English Authors, are Dean Swift and Lord Bolingbroke. The 
Dean, throughout all his writings, in the midst of much cor- 
rectness, maintains the easy natural manner of an unaffected 
Speaker; and this is one of his chief excellencies. Lord 
Bolingbroke's Style is more splendid, and more declamatory than 
Dean Swift's ; but still it is the style of one who speaks, or 
rather who harangues. Indeed, all his Political Writings (for it 
is to them only and not to his Philosophical ones, that this obser- 
vation can be applied) carry much more the appearance of one 
declaiming with warmth in a great assembly, than of one 
writing in a closet, in order to be read by others. They have 
all the copiousness, the fervour, the inculcating method that 
is allowable and graceful in an Orator ; perhaps too much of it 
for a Writer ; and it is to be regretted, as I have formerly 
observed, that the matter contained in them should have been so 
trivial, or so false : for, from the manner and style, considerable 
advantage might be reaped. 

In the fifth place, Besides attention to the best models, fre- 
quent exercise both in composing and speaking, will be admitted 
to be a necessary mean of improvement. That sort of Compo- 
sition is, doubtless, most useful, which relates to the profession, 
or kind of Public Speaking, to which persons addict themselves. 
This they should keep ever in their eye, and be gradually 
inuring themselves to it. But let me also advise them, not to 
allow themselves in negligent Composition of any kind. He 
who has it for his aim to write, or to speak correctly, should, in 
the most trivial kind of Composition, in writing a letter, nay, 
even in common discourse, study to acquit himself with pro- 
priety. I do not at all mean, that he is never to write or to 
speak a word, but in elaborate and artificial language. This 
would form him to a stiffness and affectation, worse, by ten 
thousand degrees, than the greatest negligence. But it is to be 
observed, that there is, in every thing, a manner which is 
becoming, and has propriety ; and opposite to it, there is a clumsy 
and faulty performance of the same thing. The becoming 
manner is very often the most light, and seemingly careless 
manner : but it requires taste and attention to seize the just idea 
of it. That idea, when acquired, we should keep in our eye, 
and form upon it whatever we write or say. 

Exercises of speaking have always been recommended to 
students, in order that they may prepare themselves for speaking 
in public, and on real business. The Meetings, or Societies, into 
which they sometimes form themselves for this purpose, are 
laudable institutions ; and, under proper conduct, may serve 
many valuable purposes. They are favourable to knowledge 
and study, by giving occasion to inquiries concerning those sub- 
jects which are made the ground of discussion. They produce 
emulation; and gradually inure those who are concerned in 



406 MEANS OP IMPROVING [LECT. XXXIV. 

them, to somewhat that resembles a Public Assembly. They 
accustom them to know their own powers, and to acquire a com- 
mand of themselves in speaking; and what is, perhaps, the 
greatest advantage of all, they give them a facility and fluency 
of expression, and assist them in procuring that "Copia ver- 
borum," which can be acquired by no other means but frequent 
exercise in speaking. 

But the Meetings which I have now in my eye, are to be 
understood of those academical associations, where a moderate 
number of young Gentlemen, who are carrying on their studies, 
and are connected by some affinity in the future pursuits which 
they have in view, assemble privately, in order to improve one 
another, and to prepare themselves for those public exhibitions 
which may afterwards fall to their lot. As for those public and 
promiscuous Societies, in which multitudes are brought together, 
who are often of low stations and occupations, who are joined by 
no common bond of union, except an absurd rage for Public 
Speaking, and have no other object in view, but to make a show 
of their supposed talents, they are institutions not merely of an 
useless, but of a hurtful nature. They are in great hazard of 
proving seminaries of licentiousness, petulance, faction, and folly. 
They mislead those, who, in their own callings, might be useful 
members of society, into fantastic plans of making a figure on 
subjects which divert their attention from their proper business, 
and are widely remote from their sphere in life. 

Even the allowable meetings into which Students of Oratory 
form themselves, stand in need of direction in order to render 
them useful. If their subjects of discourse be improperly 
chosen ; if they maintain extravagant or indecent topics ; if they 
indulge themselves in loose and flimsy declamation, which has no 
foundation in good sense ; or accustom themselves to speak 
pertly on all subjects without due preparation, they may im- 
prove one another in petulance, but in no other thing ; and will 
infallibly form themselves to a very faulty and vicious taste in 
speaking. I would, therefore, advise all who are members of 
such societies, in the first place, to attend to the choice of their 
subjects ; that they be useful and manly, either formed on the 
course of their studies, or on something that has relation to 
morals and taste, to action and life. In the second place, I 
would advise them to be temperate in the practice of Speaking ; 
not to speak too often, nor on subjects where they are ignorant 
or unripe ; but only when they have proper materials for a 
discourse, and have digested and thought of the subject before- 
hand. In the third place, When they do speak, they should 
study always to keep good sense and persuasion in view, rather 
than an ostentation of Eloquence ; and for this end, I would, in 
the fourth place, repeat the advice which I gave in a former 
Lecture, that they should always choose that side of the ques- 
tion to which, in their own judgment, they are most inclined, as 



LECT. XXXIV.] IN ELOQUENCE. 407 

the right and the true side ; and defend it by such arguments as 
seem to them most solid. By these means they will take the 
best method of forming themselves gradually to a manly, correct, 
and persuasive manner of Speaking. 

It now only remains to inquire, of what use may the study of 
Critical and Rhetorical Writers be for improving one in the 
practice of Eloquence ? These are certainly not to be neglected ; 
and yet, I dare not say that much is to be expected from them. 
For professed Writers on Public Speaking, we must look chiefly 
among the Ancients, In modern times, for reasons which were 
before given, Popular Eloquence, as an Art, has never been very 
much the object of study ; it has not the same powerful effects 
among us that it had in more democratical states ; and therefore 
has not been cultivated with the same care. Among the 
Moderns, though there has been a great deal of good criticism 
on the different kinds of Writing, yet much has not been 
attempted on the subject of Eloquence or Public Discourse; 
and what has been given us of that kind, has been drawn mostly 
from the Ancients. Such a Writer as Joannes Gerardus Vos- 
sius, who has gathered into one heap of ponderous lumber, all 
.the trifling, as well as the useful things, that are to be found in 
the Greek and Roman Writers, is enough to disgust one with 
the study of Eloquence. Among the French, there has been 
more attempted on this subject, than among the English. The 
Bishop of Cambray's Writings on Eloquence I before men- 
tioned with honour.- Rollin, Batteux, Crevier, Gibert, and 
several other French Critics, have also written on Oratory ; but 
though some of them may be useful, none of them are so con- 
siderable as to deserve particular recommendation. 

It is to the original Ancient Writers that we must chiefly 
have recourse ; and it is a reproach to any one, whose profession 
calls him to speak in public, to be unacquainted with them. In 
all the Ancient Rhetorical Writers, there is, indeed, this defect, 
that they are too systematical, as I formerly showed ; they aim 
at doing too much; at reducing Rhetoric to a complete and 
perfect Art, which may even supply invention with materials on 
every subject ; insomuch, that one would imagine they expected 
to form an Orator by rule, in as mechanical a manner as one 
would form a Carpenter. Whereas, all that can, in truth, be done, 
is to give openings for assisting and enlightening Taste, and for 
pointing out to Genius the course it ought to hold. 

Aristotle laid the foundation for all that was afterwards 
written on the subject. That amazing and comprehensive 
Genius, which does honour to human nature, and which gave 
light into so many different Sciences, has investigated the prin- 
ciples of Rhetoric with great penetration. Aristotle appears to 
have been the first who took Rhetoric out of the hands of the 
Sophists, and introduced reasoning and good sense into the Art. 
Some of the profoundest things which have been written on the 



.' 



408 IMPROVING IN ELOQUENCE. [lECT. XXXIV. 

passions and manners of men, are to be found in his Treatise on 
Rhetoric ; though in this, as in all his writings, his great brevity 
often renders him obscure. Succeeding Greek Rhetoricians, 
most of whom are now lost, improved on the foundation which 
Aristotle had laid. Two of them still remain, Demetrius 
Phalereus, and Dionysius of Halicarnassus ; both write on the 
Construction of Sentences, and deserve to be perused ; especially 
Dionysius, who is a very accurate and judicious Critic. 

I need scarcely recommend the Rhetorical Writings of Cicero. 
Whatever, on the subject of Eloquence, comes from so great an 
Orator, must be worthy of attention. His most considerable 
work on this subject is that De Oratore, in three books. None 
of Cicero's Writings are more highly finished than this Treatise. 
The dialogue is polite ; the characters are well supported, and 
the conduct of the whole is beautiful and agreeable. It is, 
indeed, full of digressions, and his rules and observations may be 
thought sometimes too vague and general. Useful things, how- 
ever, may be learned from it ; and it is no small benefit to be 
made acquainted with Cicero's own idea of Eloquence. The 
" Orator ad M. Brutum," is also a considerable Treatise ; and, 
in general, throughout all Cicero's rhetorical works there run 
those high and sublime ideas of Eloquence, which are fitted both 
for forming a just taste, and for creating that enthusiasm for the 
Art, which is of the greatest consequence for excelling in it. 

But of all the Ancient Writers on the subject of Oratory, the 
most instructive, and most useful, is Quinctilian. I know few 
books which abound more with good sense, and discover a greater 
degree of just and accurate taste, than Quinctilian's Institutions. 
Almost all the principles of good Criticism are to be found in 
them. He has digested into excellent order all the ancient ideas 
concerning Rhetoric, and is, at the same time, himself an elo- 
quent Writer. Though some parts of his work contain too much 
of the technical and artificial system then in vogue, and for that 
reason may be thought dry and tedious, yet I would not advise 
the omitting to read any part of his Institutions. To Pleaders 
at the Bar, even these technical parts may prove of some use. 
Seldom has any person, of more sound and distinct judgment 
than Quinctilian, applied himself to the study of the Art of 
Oratory. 



*r 



LECT. XXXV.] ANCIENT AND MODERN WRITING. 409 



LECTUKE XXXV. 

COMPARATIVE MERIT OF THE ANCIENTS AND THE MODERNS 
— HISTORICAL WRITING. 

I have now finished that part of the Course which respected 
Oratory or Public Speakings and which, as far as the subject 
allowed, I have endeavoured to form into some sort of system. 
It remains, that I enter on the consideration of the most distin- 
guished kinds of Composition both in Prose and Verse, and 
point out the principles of Criticism relating to them. This part 
of the work might easily be drawn out to a great length ; but I 
am sensible that critical discussions, when they are pursued too 
far, become both trifling and tedious. I shall study, therefore, 
to avoid unnecessary prolixity ; and hope, at the same time, to 
omit nothing that is very material under the several heads. 

I shall follow the same method here which I have all along 
pursued, and without which these Lectures could not be entitled 
to any attention ; that is, I shall freely deliver my own opinion 
on every subject ; regarding authority no farther, than as it ap- 
pears to me founded on good sense and reason. In former 
Lectures, as I have often quoted several of the ancient Classics 
for their beauties, so I have also, sometimes, pointed out their 
defects. Hereafter, I shall have occasion to do the same, when 
treating of their writings under more general heads. It may be 
fit, therefore, that, before I proceed farther, I make some observ- 
ations on the comparative merit of the Ancients and the 
Moderns ; in order that we may be able to ascertain, rationally, 
upon what foundation that deference rests, which has so gene- 
rally been paid to the Ancients. These observations are the 
more necessary, as this subject has given rise to no small con- 
troversy in the Republic of Letters ; and they may, with pro- 
priety, be made now, as they will serve to throw light on some 
things I have afterwards to deliver, concerning different kinds 
of Composition. 

It is a remarkable phenomenon, and one which has often 
employed the speculations of curious men, that Writers and 
Artists, most distinguished for their parts and genius, have gene- 
rally appeared in considerable numbers at a time. Some ages 
have been remarkably barren in them ; while, at other periods, 
Nature seems to have exerted herself with a more than ordinary 
effort, and to have poured them forth with a profuse fertility. 
Various reasons have been assigned for this. Some of the 
moral causes lie obvious; such as favourable circumstances of 
government and of manners ; encouragement from great men ; 
emulation excited among the men of genius. But as these have 

F F 



410 ANCIENT AND MODERN [LECT. XXXV. 

been thought inadequate to the whole effect, physical causes have 
been also assigned ; and the Abbe du Bos, in his Reflections on 
Poetry and Painting, has collected a great many observations on 
the influence which the air, the climate, and other such natural 
causes, may be supposed to have upon genius. But whatever 
the causes be, the fact is certain, that there have been certain 
periods or ages of the world much more distinguished than 
others for the extraordinary productions of genius. 

Learned men have marked out four of these happy ages. The 
first is the Grecian Age, which commenced near the time of the 
Peloponnesian war, and extended till the time of Alexander 
the Great; within which period we have Herodotus, Thucy- 
dides, Xenophon, Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, Demosthenes, 
.ZEschines, Lysias, Isocrates, Pindar, ^Eschylus, Euripides, 
Sophocles, Aristophanes, Menander, Anacreon, Theocritus, Ly- 
sippus, Apelles, Phidias, Praxiteles. The second is the Roman 
Age, included nearly within the days of Julius Caesar and Augus- 
tus ; affording us Catullus, Lucretius, Terence, Virgil, Horace, 
Tibullus, Propertius, Ovid, Phaedrus, Caesar, Cicero, Livy, 
Sallust, Varro, and Vitruvius. The third Age is, that of the 
restoration of Learning, under the Popes Julius II. and Leo X. ; 
when flourished Ariosto, Tasso, Sannazarius, Vida, Machiavel, 
Guicciardini, Davila, Erasmus, Paul Jovius, Michael Angelo, 
Raphael, Titian. The fourth comprehends the Age of Louis 
XIV. and Queen Anne ; when flourished in France, Corneile, 
Racine, De Retz, Moliere, Boileau, Fontaine, Baptiste, Rous- 
seau, Bossuet, Fenelon, Bourdaloue, Pascall, Malebranche, 
Massillon, Bruyere, Bayle, Fontenelle, Vertot ; and in England, 
Dryden, Pope, Addison, Prior, Swift, Parnell, Arbuthnot, Con- 
greve, Otway, Young, Rowe, Atterbury, Shaftesbury, Boling- 
broke, Tillotson, Temple, Boyle, Locke, Newton, Clarke. 

When we speak comparatively of the Ancients and the 
Moderns, we generally mean by the Ancients, such as lived in 
the first two of these periods, including also one or two who 
lived more early, as Homer in particular ; and by the Moderns, 
those who flourished in the last two of these ages, including also 
the eminent writers down to our own times. Any comparison 
between these two classes of writers must necessarily be vague 
and loose, as they comprehend so many, and of such different 
kinds and degrees of genius. But the comparison is generally 
made to turn, by those who are fond of making it, upon two or 
three of the most distinguished in each class. With much heat 
it was agitated in France betweeen Boileau and Mad. Dacier, 
on the one hand, for the Ancients ; and Perault, and La Motte, 
on the other, for the Moderns ; and it was carried to extremes 
on both sides. To this day, among men of taste and letters, we 
find a leaning to one or other side. A few reflections may 
throw light upon the subject, and enable us to discern upon what 
grounds we are to rest our judgment in this controversy. 



LECT. XXXV.] WKIT1NG COMPAKED. 411 

If any one, at this day, in the eighteenth century, takes upon 
him to decry the Ancient Classics ; if he pretends to have dis- 
covered that Homer and Virgil are Poets of inconsiderable 
merit, and that Demosthenes and Cicero are not great Orators, 
we may boldly venture to tell such a man, that he is come too 
late with his discovery. The reputation of such Writers is 
established upon a foundation too solid to be now shaken by any 
arguments whatever ; for it is established upon the almost 
universal taste of mankind, proved and tried throughout the 
succession of so many ages. Imperfections in their works he 
may, indeed, point out ; passages that are faulty he may show ; 
for where is the human work that is perfect? But, if he 
attempts to discredit their works in general, or to prove that the 
reputation which they have gained is, on the whole unjust, there 
is an argument against him, which is equal to full demonstration* 
He must be in the wrong ; for human nature is against him. 
In matters of taste, such as Poetry and Oratory, to whom does 
the appeal lie ? where is the standard ? and where the authority 
of the last decision? where is it to be looked for, but, as I 
formerly showed, in those feelings and sentiments that are found, 
on the most extensive examination, to be the common sentiments 
and feelings of men ? These have been fully consulted on this 
head. The Public, the unprejudiced Public, has been tried and 
appealed to for many centuries, and throughout almost all 
civilized nations. It has pronounced its verdict ; it has given 
its sanction to these writers ; and from this tribunal there lies 
no farther appeal. 

In matters of mere reasoning, the world may be long in an 
error; and maybe convinced of the error by stronger reasonings, 
when produced. Positions that depend upon science, upon 
knowledge, and matters of fact, may be overturned according as 
science and knowledge are enlarged, and new matters- of fact are 
brought to light. For this reason, a system of Philosophy 
receives no sufficient sanction from its antiquity, or long cur- 
rency. The world, as it grows older, may be justly expected to 
become, if not wiser, at least more knowing ; and supposing it 
doubtful, whether Aristotle or Newton were the greater genius, 
yet Newton's Philosophy may prevail over Aristotle's, by means 
of later discoveries, to which Aristotle was a stranger. But 
nothing of this kind holds as to matters of Taste ; which depend 
not on the progress of knowledge and science, but upon senti- 
ment and feeling. It is in vain to think of undeceiving mankind, 
with respect to errors committed here, as in Philosophy. For 
the universal feeling of mankind is the natural feeling; and 
because it is the natural, it is, for that reason, the right feeling. 
The reputation of the Iliad and the .ZEneid must therefore stand 
upon sure ground, because it has stood so long ; though that 
of the Aristotelian or Platonic Philosophy, every one is at 
liberty to call in question. 

F F 2 



412 ANCIENT AND MODERN [LECT. XXXV. 

It is in vain also to allege, that the reputation of the ancient 
Poets and Orators is owing to authority, to pedantry, and to 
the prejudices of education, transmitted from age to age. These, 
it is true, are the authors put into our hands at schools and 
colleges, and by that means we have now an early prepossession 
in their favour ; but how came they to gain the possession of 
colleges and schools? Plainly, by the high fame which these 
authors had among their own contemporaries. For the Greek 
and Latin were not always dead languages. There was a time 
when Homer, and Virgil, and Horace, were viewed in the same 
light as we now view Dryden, Pope, and Addison. It is not to 
commentators and universities that the classics are indebted for 
their fame. They became classics and school-books, in conse- 
quence of the high admiration which was paid them by the best 
judges in their own country and nation. As early as the days 
of Juvenal, who wrote under the reign of Domitian, we find 
Virgil and Horace become the standard books in the education 
of youth. 

Quot stabant pueri, cum totus decolor esset 

Flaccus, et haereret nigro fuligo Maroni.* Sat. 7. 

From this general principle, then, of the reputation of the 
great ancient Classics being so early, so lasting, so extensive, 
among all the most polished nations, we may justly and boldly 
infer, that their reputation cannot be wholly unjust, but must 
have a solid foundation in the merit of their writings. 

Let us guard, however, against a blind and implicit venera- 
tion for the Ancient's in every thing. I have opened the general 
principle which must go far in instituting a fair comparison be- 
tween them and the Moderns. Whatever superiority the An- 
cients may have had in point of genius, yet in all arts, where 
the natural progress of knowledge has had room to produce any 
considerable effects, the Moderns cannot but have some ad- 
vantage. The world may, in certain respects, be considered as 
a person, who must needs gain somewhat by advancing in years. 
Its improvements have not, I confess, been always in proportion 
to the centuries that have passed over it ; for, during the course 
of some ages, it has sunk as into a total lethargy. Yet, when 
roused from thatf lethargy, it has generally been able to avail 
itself, more or less, of former discoveries. At intervals, there 
arose some happy genius, who could both improve on what had 
gone, before, and invent something new. With the advantage 
of a proper stock of materials, In inferior genius can make 



* " Then thou art bound to smell, on either hand, 
As many stinking lamps, as school-boys stand, 
When Horace could not read in his own sully'd book, 
And Virgil's sacred page was all besmeared with smoke." 

Dryden. 



LECT. XXXY.] WRITING COMPARED. 413 

greater progress than a much superior one, to whom these 
materials are wanting. 

Hence, in Natural Philosophy, Astronomy, Chemistry, and 
other Sciences that depend on an extensive knowledge and ob- 
servation of facts, Modern Philosophers have an unquestionable 
superiority over the Ancient. I am inclined also to think, that 
in matters of pure reasoning, there is more precision among the 
Moderns, than in some instances there was among the Ancients ; 
owing perhaps to a more extensive literary intercourse, which 
has improved and sharpened the faculties of men. In some 
studies, too, that relate to taste and fine writing, which is our 
object, the progress of Society must, in equity, be admitted 
to have given us some advantages. For instance, in History, 
there is certainly more political knowledge in several European 
nations at present than there was in ancient Greece and Rome. 
We are better acquainted with the nature of government, be- 
cause we have seen it under a great variety of forms and revolu- 
tions. The world is more laid open than it was in former 
times ; commerce is greatly enlarged ; more countries are 
civilized ; posts are everywhere established ; intercourse is 
become more easy ; and the knowledge of facts, by consequence, 
more attainable. All these are great advantages to Historians ; 
of which, in some measure, as I shall afterwards show, they have 
availed themselves. In the more complex kinds of Poetry, 
likewise, we may have gained somewhat, perhaps, in point 
of regularity aad accuracy. In Dramatic Performances, having 
the advantage of the ancient models, we may be allowed to have 
made some improvements in the variety of the characters, the 
conduct of the plot, attentions to probability, and to decorums. 

These seem to me the chief points of superiority we can plead 
above the Ancients. Neither do they extend as far as might be 
imagined at first view. For if the strength of genius be on one 
side, it will go far, in works of taste at least, to counterbalance all 
the artificial improvements which can be made by greater know- 
ledge and correctness. To return to our comparison of the age 
of the world with that of a man ; it may be said, not altogether 
without reason, that if the advancing age of the world bring 
along with it more science and more refinement, there belong, 
however, to its earlier periods, more vigour, more fire, more en- 
thusiasm of genius. This appears indeed to form the charac- 
teristic difference between the Ancient Poets, Orators, and 
Historians, compared with the Modern. Among the Ancients, 
we find higher conceptions, greater simplicity, more original 
fancy. Among the Moderns, sometimes more art and correct- 
ness, but feebler exertions of genius. But though this be in 
general a mark of distinction between the Ancients and 
Moderns, yet, like all general observations, it must be under- 
stood with some exceptions ; for, in point of poetical fire and 



i 



414 ANCfENT AND MODEKN [LECT. XXXV. 

original genius, Milton and Shakspeare are inferior to no Poets 
in any age. 

It is proper to observe, that there were some circumstances 
in ancient times very favourable to those uncommon efforts of 
genius which were then exerted. Learning was a much more 
rare and singular attainment in the earlier ages, than it is 
at present. It was not to schools and universities that the 
persons applied who sought to distinguish themselves. They 
had not this easy recourse. They travelled for their improve- 
ment into distant countries, to Egypt, and to the East. They 
inquired after all the monuments of learning there. They con- 
versed with Priests, Philosophers, Poets, with all who had ac- 
quired any distinguished fame. They returned to their own 
country full of the discoveries which they had made, and fired 
by the new and uncommon objects whicli they had seen. Their 
knowledge and improvements cost them more labour, raised in 
them more enthusiasm, were attended with higher rewards and 
honours, than in modern days. Fewer had the means and 
opportunities of distinguishing themselves ; but such as did 
distinguish themselves, were sure of acquiring that fame, and 
even veneration, which is, of all rewards, the greatest incentive 
to genius. Herodotus read his history to all Greece assembled 
at the Olympic games, and was publicly crowned. In the 
Peloponnesian war, when the Athenian army was defeated in 
Sicily, and the prisoners were ordered to be put to death, such 
of them as could repeat any verses of Euripides were saved, 
from honour to that Poet, who was a citizen of Athens. These 
were testimonies of public regard, far beyond what modern 
manners confer upon genius. 

In our times, good writing is considered as an attainment, 
neither so difficult nor so high and meritorious. 

Scnbimus indocti, doctique, Poemata passim.* 

We write much more supinely, and at our ease, than the An- 
cients. To excel, is become a much less considerable object. 
Less effort, less exertion is required, because we have many 
more assistances than they. Printing has rendered all books 
common, and easy to be had. Education for any of the learned 
professions can be carried on without much trouble. Hence a 
mediocrity of genius is spread over all ; but to rise beyond that, 
and to overtop the crowd, is given to few. The multitude of 
assistances which we have for all kinds of composition, in the 
opinion of Sir William Temple, a very competent judge, rather 
depresses than favours the exertions of native genius. " It is 
very possible," says that ingenious Author, in his Essay on the 

* " Now every desperate blockhead dares to write, 

Verse is the trade of every living wight." Francis. 



LECT. XXXV.] WRITING COMPARED. 415 

Ancients and Moderns, " that men may lose rather than gain by 
these ; may lessen the force of their own genius, by forming 
it upon that of others ; may have less knowledge of their own, 
for contenting themselves with that of those before them. Soa L 
man that only translates, shall never be a Poet ; so people that 
trust to others charity, rather than their own industry, will be 
always poor. Who can tell," he adds, " whether learning may 
not even weaken invention, in a man that has great advantages 
from nature ? Whether the weight and number of so many 
other men's thoughts and notions may not suppress his own ; as 
heaping on wood sometimes suppresses a little spark, that would 
otherwise have grown into a flame ? The strength of mind, as 
well as of body, grows more from the warmth of exercise, than 
of clothes : nay, too much of this foreign heat, rather makes 
men faint, and their constitutions weaker than they would be 
without them." 

From whatever cause it happens, so it is, that among some of 
the Ancient Writers, we must look for the highest models 
in most of the kinds of elegant Composition. For accurate 
thinking and enlarged ideas, in several parts of Philosophy, 
to the Moderns we ought chiefly to have recourse. Of correct 
and finished writing in some works of taste, they may afford use- 
ful patterns; but for all that belongs to original genius, to 
spirited, masterly, and high execution, our best and most happy 
ideas are generally speaking, drawn from the Ancients. In 
Epic Poetry, for instance, Homer and Virgil, to this day, stand 
not within many degrees of any rival. Orators, such as Cicero 
and Demosthenes, we have none. In History, notwithstanding 
some defects, which I am afterwards to mention in the Ancient 
Historical Plans, it may be safely asserted, that we have no 
such historical narration, so elegant, so picturesque, so animated 
and interesting, as that of Herodotus, Thucydides, Xenophon, 
Livy, 'Tacitus, and Sallust. Although the conduct of the drama 
may be admitted to have received some improvements, yet for 
Poetry and Sentiment we have nothing to equal Sophocles and 
Euripides; nor any dialogue in comedy, that comes up to. the. 
correct, graceful, and elegant simplicity of Terence. We have 
no such Love Elegies as those of Tibullus ; no such Pastorals 
as some of Theocritus's ; and for Lyric Poetry, Horace stands 
quite unrivalled. The name of Horace cannot be mentioned 
without a particular encomium. That " Curiosa Felicitas," 
which Petronius has remarked in his expression ; the sweetness, 
elegance, and spirit of many of his Odes, the thorough know- 
ledge of the world, the excellent sentiments, and natural easy 
manner which distinguish his Satires and Epistles, all contribute 
to render him one of those very few Authors whom one never * 
tires of reading ; and from whom alone, were every other monu- 
ment destroyed, we should be led to form a very high idea of the 
taste and genius of the Augustan Age. 



416 HISTORICAL WRITING. [LECT. XXXV. 

To all such, then, as wish to form their taste, and nourish 
their genius, let me warmly recommend the assiduous study 
of the Ancient Classics, both Greek and Roman : 

Nocturna versate manu, versate diurna.* 

Without a considerable acquaintance with them, no man can be 
reckoned a polite scholar, and he will want many assistances for 
writing and speaking well, which the knowledge of such Authors 
would afford him. Any one has great reason to suspect his own 
taste, who receives little or no pleasure from the perusal of 
Writings, which so many ages and nations have consented in 
holding up as objects of admiration. And I am persuaded it 
it will be found, that in proportion as the Ancients are generally 
studied and admired, or are unknown and disregarded in any 
country, good taste and good composition will flourish or decline. 
They are commonly none but the ignorant or superficial who 
undervalue them. 

At the same time, a just and high regard for the prime writers 
of antiquity is to be always distinguished, from that contempt of 
every thing which is Modern, and that blind veneration for 
all that has been written in Greek or Latin, which belongs only 
to pedants. Among the Greek and Roman Authors, some 
assuredly deserve much higher regard than others ; nay, some are 
of no great value. Even the best of them lie open occasionally 
to just censure; for to no human performance is it given to 
be absolutely perfect. We may, we ought therefore to read 
them with a distinguishing eye, so as to propose for imitation 
their beauties only ; and it is perfectly consistent with just and 
candid criticism, to find fault with parts, while, at the same 
time, it admires the whole. 

After these reflections on the Ancients and Moderns, I pro- 
ceed to a critical examination of the most distinguished kinds of 
Composition, and the characters of those Writers who have ex- 
celled in them, whether Modern or Ancient. 

The most general division of the different kinds of Composi- 
tion is, into those written in Prose, and those written in Yerse ; 
which certainly require to be separately considered, because sub- 
ject to separate laws. I begin, as' is most natural, with Writ- 
ings in Prose. Of Orations, or Public Discourses of all kinds, 
I have already treated fully. The remaining species of Prose 
Compositions, which assume any such regular form as to fall 
under the cognizance of criticism, seem to be chiefly these: 
Historical Writing, Philosophical Writing, Epistolary Writing, 
and Fictitious History. Historical Composition shall be first 
considered ; and, as it is an object of dignity, I propose to treat 
of it at some length. 

As it is the office of an Orator to persuade, it is that of an 

* " Read them by day, and study them by night." Francis. 



LECT. XXXV.] HISTORICAL WRITING. 417 

Historian to record truth for the instruction of mankind. This 
is the proper object and end of history, from which may be 
deduced many of the laws relating to it ; and if this object were 
always kept in view, it would prevent many of the errors into 
which persons are apt to fall concerning this species of composi- 
tion. As the primary end of history is to record truth, Impar- 
tiality, Fidelity, and Accuracy, are the fundamental qualities of 
an Historian. He must neither be a panegyrist nor a satirist. 
He must not enter into faction, nor give scope to affection ; but 
contemplating past events and characters with a cool and dis- 
passionate eye, must present to his readers a faithful copy 
of human nature. 

At the same time, it is not every record of facts, however 
true, that is entitled to the name of History ; but such a record 
as enables us to apply the transactions of former ages for our 
own instruction. The facts ought to be momentous and impor- 
tant ; represented in connexion with their causes ; traced to their 
eifects ; and unfolded in clear and distinct order. For wisdom is 
the great end of History. It is designed to supply the want of 
experience. Though it enforce not its instructions with the 
same authority, yet it furnishes us with a greater variety of in- 
structions, than it is possible for experience to afford in the course 
of the longest life. Its object is, to enlarge our views of the 
human character, and to give full exercise to our judgment on 
human affairs. It must not therefore be a tale calculated to please 
only, and addressed to the fancy. Gravity and dignity are 
essential characteristics of History; no light ornaments are to 
be employed, no flippancy of style, no quaintness of wit. But 
the Writer must sustain the character of a wise man, writing for 
the instruction of posterity; one who has studied to inform 
himself well, who has pondered his subject with care, and 
addresses himself to our judgment, rather than to our imagina- 
tion. At the same time, Historical Writing is by no means in- 
consistent with ornamented and spirited narration. It admits of 
much high ornament and elegance; but the ornaments must 
be always consistent with dignity ; they should not appear to be 
sought after, but to rise naturally from a mind animated by the 
events which it records. 

Historical Composition is understood to comprehend under it, 
Annals, Memoirs, Lives. But these are its inferior subordinate 
species, on which I shall hereafter make some reflections, when 
I shall have first considered what belongs to a regular and 
legitimate work of History. Such a work is chiefly of two 
kinds. Either the entire History of some state or kingdom 
through its different revolutions, such as Livy's Roman History ; 
or the History of some one great event, or some portion or 
period of time which may be considered as making a whole by 
itself ; such as Thucydides's History of the Peloponnesian War, 



418 HISTORICAL WRITING. [LECT. XXXV. 

Davila's History of the Civil Wars of France, or Clarendon's 
of those of England. 

In the conduct and management of his subject, the first 
attention requisite in an Historian, is to give it as much unity 
as possible ; that is, his History should not consist of separate 
unconnected parts merely, but should be bound together by some 
connecting principle, which shall make the impression on the 
mind of something that is one, whole and entire. It is incon- 
ceivable how great an effect this, when happily executed, has 
upon a Reader, and it is surprising that some able Writers of 
History have not attended to it more. Whether pleasure or 
instruction be the end sought by the study of History, either 
of them is enjoyed to much greater advantage, when the mind 
has always before it the progress of some one great plan or 
system of actions ; when there is some point or centre, to which 
we can refer the various facts related by the Historian. 

In general Histories, which record the affairs of a whole 
nation or empire throughout several ages, this unity, I confess, 
must be more imperfect. Yet even there, some degree of it can 
be preserved by a skilful Writer. For though the whole, taken 
together, be very complex, yet the great constituent parts of it 
form so many subordinate wholes, when taken by themselves ; 
each of which can be treated both as complete within itself, and 
as connected with what goes before and follows. In the History 
of a Monarchy, for instance, every reign should have its own 
unity; a beginning, a middle, and an end, to the system of 
affairs ; while, at the same time, we are taught to discern how 
that system of affairs rose from the preceding, and how it is 
inserted into what follows. We should be able to trace all the 
secret links of the chain, which binds together remote and 
seemingly unconnected events. In some kingdoms of Europe, 
it was the plan of many successive Princes to reduce the power 
of their Nobles ; and during several reigns, most of the leading 
actions had a reference to this end. In other states, the rising 
power of the Commons influenced, for a tract of time, the 
course and connexion of public affairs. Among the Romans, 
the leading principle was a gradual extension of conquest, and 
the attainment of universal empire. The continual increase of 
their power, advancing towards this end from small beginnings 
and by a sort of regular progressive plan, furnished to Livy a 
happy subject for historical unity, in the midst of a great variety 
of transactions. 

Of all the ancient general historians, the one who had the 
most exact idea of this quality of Historical Composition, though 
in other respects not an elegant Writer, is Polybius. This 
appears from the account he gives of his own plan in the 
beginning of his third book ; observing that the subject of which 
he had undertaken to write, is, throughout the whole of it, one 



LECT. XXXV.] HISTOKICAL WRITING. 419 

action, one great spectacle; how, and by what causes, all the 
parts of the habitable world became subject to the Roman 
empire. w This action," says he, " is distinct in its beginning 
determined in its duration, and clear in its final accomplish- 
ment ; therefore, I think it of use to give a general view 
beforehand of the chief constituent parts which make up this 
w T hole." In another place, he congratulates himself on his 
good fortune, in having a subject for History which allowed such 
variety of parts to be united under one view ; remarking, that 
before this period the affairs of the world were scattered and 
without connexion ; whereas, in the times of which he writes, 
all the great transactions of the world tended and verged to one 
point, and w r ere capable of being considered as parts of one 
system. Whereupon he adds several very judicious observa- 
tions concerning the usefulness of writing History upon such a 
comprehensive and connected plan; comparing the imperfect 
degree of knowledge which is afforded by particular facts 
without general views, to the imperfect idea which one would 
entertain of an animal who had beheld its separate parts only, 
without having ever seen its entire form and structured 

Sueh. as write the history of some particular great transaction, 
as confine themselves to an era, or one portion of the history of 
a nation, have so great advantages for preserving historical unity, 
that they are inexcusable if they fail in it. Sallust's Histories 
of the Catilinarian and Jugurthine wars, Xenophon's Cyropaedia, 
and his Retreat of the Ten Thousand, are instances of particular 
Histories, where the unity of historical object is perfectly well 
maintained. Thucydides, otherwise a writer of great strength 
and dignity, has failed much, in this article, in his history of the 
Peloponnesian w T ar. No one great object is properly pursued, 
and kept in view; but his narration is cut down into small 
pieces, his history is divided by summers and winters, and we 
are every now and then leaving transactions unfinished, and are 
hurried from place to place, from Athens to Sicily, from thence 
to Peloponnesus, to Corcyra, to Mitylene, that we may be 
told of what is going on in all these places. We have a great 
many disjointed parts, and scattered limbs, which with difficulty 
we collect into one body ; and through this faulty distribution 

* Ka66\cv [xev yap ipoiye Sokovctiv ui TctTrtKJixkvoi did Tr\g Kara fiepog iaroplag 
[xtTpiwg avioxpicrOai ra bXd, irapairXr)(jiov ri Trdcrxeiv, ojq av h nveg tp.^vxov Kai 
KaXov (7L0/.ICIT0C ysyovoTog cuppe/xevara fispr] BtoJnsvoi,vofj.i^oiev iKavu>g avroTr-ai 
yiyvtaQai tijc ivepytiag avrov rov £wot/ kcu KaXXovrjg h yap Tig avriica fiaXa 
avvBiig Kai t&\uov avQig a.7rspya<rajj.evog to Zwov, rq) rs eidei ds Tr) rrjg xpvxVQ 
EVTTpeTrsia, Ka-Ktira icaXiv tTTidtiicvvoi roXg auroig EKtivoig, ra%Ju>f av oljuai 
Tcavrag avrovg b^oXoyijauv dio ti Kai Xiav 7rcXv ti rrjg dXrjOsiag a.7rsXti~ov-o 
7rpoa9kv, Kai 7rapa7rXr)<Jiov To^g ovsipuTTOvaiv r)aav. 'ivvoiav [ilv yap Xattlv arro 
pspovg Tu>i' oXiov dvvarov. i-xiGTr\\Lr]v $k Kai yv6i\ir\v arpSKrj txsiv ddvvarov. cio 
TTavreXuig j3paxv ti vofxiarkov av[i€a\\ea9^i rr]V Kara fxepog iuTopiav irpog ri]v 
ruiv oXivv e/j.—tipiav Kai ttlcttiv, Ik jxkv , roiye rrjg airavTw icpog uXkr\Xa 
GVfnrXoK)]g Kai TrapaQiatiog, eti 8' ofjioioTrjTog Kai diatyopag fiovojg av rig tcpiXoiTO 
Kai cwT]9eir] KaroTrrtvaag a\ia Kai to xprjcrifiov Kai to rspirvov, ek Trig ivTopiag 
Xatilv. Pot.yb. Histor. Prim. 



420 HISTORICAL WRITING. [LECT. XXXV. 

and management of his subject, that judicious Historian becomes 
more tiresome, and less agreeable than he would otherwise be. 
For these reasons he is severely censured by one of the best 
Critics of antiquity, Dionysius of Halicarnassus.* 

The Historian must not indeed neglect chronological order, 
with a view to render his narration agreeable. He must give a 
distinct account of the dates and of the coincidence of facts. 
But he is not under the necessity of breaking off always in the 
middle of transactions, in order to inform us of what was 
happening elsewhere at the same time. He discovers no art, if 
he cannot form some connexion among the affairs which he 
relates, so as to introduce them in a proper train. He will soon 
tire the reader, if he goes on recording, in strict chronological 
order, a multitude of separate transactions, connected by nothing 
else, but their happening at the same time. 

Though the history of Herodotus be of greater compass than 
that of Thucydides, and comprehend a much greater variety of 
dissimilar parts, he has been more fortunate in joining them 
together, and digesting them into order. Hence he is a more 
pleasing writer, and gives a stronger impression of his subject ; 
though, in judgment and accuracy, much inferior to Thucydides. 
With digressions and episodes he abounds; but when these 
have any connexion with the main subject, and are inserted 
professedly as episodes, the unity of the whole is less violated by 
them, than by a broken and scattered narration of the principal 
story. Among the Moderns, the President Thuanus has, by 
attempting to make the history of his own times too compre- 
hensive, fallen into the same error, of loading the reader with 
a great variety of unconnected facts, going on together in 

* The censure which Dionysius passes upon Thucydides, is in several articles carried 
too far. He blames him for the choice of his subject, as not sufficiently splendid and 
agreeable, and as abounding too much in crimes and melancholy events, on which he 
observes that Thucydides loves to dwell. He is partial to Herodotus, whom, both for 
the choice and the conduct of his subject, he prefers to the other Historian. It is true, 
that the subject of Thucydides wants the gaiety and splendour of that of Herodotus ; 
but it is not deficient in dignity. The Peloponnesian war was the contest between two 
great rival powers, the Athenian and Lacedaemonian states, for the empire of Greece. 
Herodotus loves to dwell on prosperous incidents, and retains somewhat of the amusing 
manner of the ancient poetical historians. But Herodotus wrote to the Imagination, 
Thucydides writes to the Understanding. He was a grave, reflecting man, well 
acquainted with human life ; and the melancholy events and catastrophes, which he 
records, are often both the most interesting parts of history, and the most improving to 
the heart. 

The Critic's observations on the faulty distribution which Thucydides makes of his 
subject, are better founded, and his preference of Herodotus, in this respect, is not 
unjust — OovKvdidrjg jxev roig \povoig clkoXovBojv, 'RpocoTOg 8e raiQ 7cepiox ai Q tcov 
vrpaynarojv, yiyverai Oovxi>ci8r]g aaa^rjg Kai dv(nrapaKoXov6r)Tog' ttoXXojv yap 
Kara to avro Sepog Kai %ei]u>iva yiyvo)p,ev(ov ev diatyopaig T07roig, ypureXeig Tag 
7rporag Trpa%eig KaTaXnrwv, (Tepwv airTerai tojv Kara to avro Srepog Kai %ajiiwi'a 
yiyvofjLivwv' 7rXav(jjjxe9a drj icaOaTTtp eiKog, Kai dvaKoXujg roig SrjXovjjiavoig 
TrapaKoXovOov^ev. 2vf.i€eti]K£ QovKvdidn piav vTroOeaiv Xatovri rcoXXa Ttoir\(jai 
fiepri to ev ffoj/xa. UpodoTio de Tag TroXXag Kai ovSev evoKviag viroQcveig wpcei- 
Xop,tVio, avp,<l>(x)vov ev o-cjfia 7re7roirjKevai. With regard to Style, Dionysius gives 
Thucydides the just praise of energy and brevity ; but censures him on many occasions, 
not without reason, for harsh and obscure expression, deficient in smoothness and ease. 



LECT. XXXVI.] HISTOKICAL WRITING. 421 

different parts of the world; an Historian otherwise of great 
probity, candour, and excellent understanding ; but through this 
want of unity, more tedious, and less interesting than he would 
otherwise have been. 



LECTUEE XXXVI. 

HISTORICAL WRITING. 

After making some observations on the controversy which 
has been often carried on concerning the comparative merit of 
the Ancients and the Moderns, I entered, in the last Lecture, 
on the consideration of Historical Writing. The general idea 
of History is, a record of truth for the instruction of mankind. 
Hence arise the primary qualities required in a good Historian, 
impartiality, fidelity, gravity, and dignity. What I principally 
considered, was the unity which belongs to this sort of Composi- 
tion ; the nature of which I have endeavoured to explain. 

I proceed next to observe, that in order to fulfil the end of 
History, the Author must study to trace to their springs the 
actions and events which he records. Two things are especially 
necessary for his doing this successfully ; a thorough acquain- 
tance with human nature, and political knowledge, or acquain- 
tance with government. The former is necessary to account 
for the conduct of individuals, and to give just views of their 
character ; the latter to account for the revolutions of govern- 
ment, and the operation of political causes on public affairs. 
Both must concur, in order to form a completely instructive 
Historian. 

With regard to the latter article, Political Knowledge, the 
ancient Writers wanted some advantages which the Moderns 
enjoy ; from whom, upon that account, we have a title to expect 
more accurate and precise information. The world, as I for- 
merly hinted, was more shut up in ancient times, than it is now ; 
there was then less communication among neighbouring states ; 
and by consequence less knowledge of one another's affairs ; no 
intercourse by established posts, or by Ambassadors resident at 
distant courts. The knowledge, and materials of the ancient 
Historians, were thereby more limited and circumscribed ; and 
it is to be observed too, that they wrote for their own country- 
men only ; they had no idea of writing for the instruction of 
foreigners, whom they despised, or of the world in general ; and 
hence they are less attentive to convey all that knowledge with 
regard to domestic policy, which we, in distant times, would 
desire to have learned from them. Perhaps, also, though in 
ancient ages men were abundantly animated with the love of 



422 HISTORICAL WRITING. [LECT. XXXVI. 

liberty, yet the full extent of the influence of government, and 
of political causes, was not then so thoroughly scrutinized, as it 
has been in modern times, when a long experience of all the 
different modes of government has rendered men more enlightened 
and intelligent, with respect to public affairs. 

To these reasons it is owing, that though the ancient His- 
torians set before us the particular facts which they relate, in a 
very distinct and beautiful manner, yet sometimes they do not 
give us a clear view of all the political causes, which affected the 
situation of affairs of which they treat. From the Greek Histo- 
rians, we are able to form but an imperfect notion of the strength, 
the wealth, and the revenues of the different Grecian states ; of 
the causes of several of those revolutions that happened in their 
government ; or of their separate connexions and interfering 
interests. In writing the History of the Romans, Livy had 
surely the most ample field for displaying political knowledge, 
concerning the rise of their greatness, and the advantages or 
defects of their government. Yet the instruction in these im- 
portant articles, which he affords, is not considerable. An ele- 
gant Writer he is, and a beautiful relater of facts, if ever there 
was one ; but by no means distinguished for profoundness or 
penetration. Sallust, when writing the history of a conspiracy 
against the government, which ought to have been altogether a 
Political History, has evidently attended more to the elegance of 
narration, and the painting of characters, than to the unfolding of 
secret causes and springs. Instead of that complete information, 
which we would naturally have expected from him, of the state 
of parties in Home, and of that particular conjuncture of affairs, 
which enabled so desperate a profligate as Catiline to become 
so formidable to government, he has given us little more than 
a general declamatory account of the luxury and corruption 
of manners in that age, compared with the simplicity of former 
times. 

I by no means, however, mean to censure all the ancient His- 
torians as defective in political information. No historians can 
be more instructive than Thucydides, Polybius, and Tacitus. 
Thucydides is grave, intelligent, and judicious ; always attentive 
to give very exact information concerning every operation which 
he relates ; and to show the advantages or disadvantages of every 
plan that was proposed, and every measure that was pursued. 
Polybius excels in comprehensive political views, in penetration 
into great systems, and in his profound and distinct knowledge 
of all military affairs. Tacitus is eminent for his knowledge of 
the human heart ; is sentimental and refined in a high degree ; 
conveys much instruction with respect to political matters, but 
more with respect to human nature. 

But when we demand from the Historian profound and in- 
structive views of his subject, it is not meant that he should be 
frequently interrupting the course of his History, with his own 



LECT. XXXVI.] HISTORICAL WRITING. 423 

reflections and speculations. He should give us all the informa- 
tion that is necessary for our fully understanding the affairs 
which he records. He should make us acquainted with the poli- 
tical constitution, the force, the revenues, the internal state of 
the country of which he writes ; and with its interests and con- 
nections in respect of neighbouring countries. He should place 
us, as on an elevated station, whence we may have an extensive 
prospect of all the causes that co-operate in bringing forward 
the events which are related. But having put into our hands 
all the proper materials for judgment, he should not be too pro- 
digal of his own opinions and reasonings. When an Historian is 
much given to dissertation, and is ready to philosophize and spe- 
culate on all that he records, a suspicion naturally arises, that he 
will be in hazard of adapting his narrative of facts to favour some 
system which he has formed to himself. It is rather by fair and 
judicious narration, that history should instruct us, than by 
deliverino; instruction in an avowed and direct manner. On 
some occasions, when doubtful points require to be scrutinized, or 
when some great event is in agitation, concerning the causes or 
circumstances of which mankind have been much divided, the 
narrative may be allowed to stand still for a little ; the Histo- 
rian may appear, and may with propriety enter into some weighty 
discussion. But he must take care not to cloy his Readers with 
such discussions, by repeating them too often. 

When observations are to be made concerning human nature 
in general, or the peculiarities of certain characters, if the Histo- 
rian can artfully incorporate such observations with his narrative, 
they will have a better effect than when they are delivered as 
formal detached reflections. For instance : in the life of Agri- 
cola, Tacitus, speaking of Domitian's treatment of Agricola, 
makes this observation; "Proprium humani ingenii est, odisse 
quern lasseris." * The observation is just and well applied ; but 
the form, in which it stands, is abstract and philosophical. A 
thought of the same kind has a finer effect elsewhere in the same 
Historian, when speaking of the jealousies which Gennanicus 
knew to be entertained against him by Livia and Tiberius : 
"Anxius," says he, "occultis in se patrui aviaaque odiis, quorum 
causae acriores quia iniquas." f Here a profound moral observa- 
tion is made ; but it is made, without the appearance of making 
it in form ; it is introduced as a part of the narration, in assigning 
a reason for the anxiety of Grermanicus. We have another in- 
stance of the same kind, in the account which he gives of a 
mutiny raised against Rufus, who was a " Praefectus Castrorum," 
on account of the severe labour which he imposed on the sol- 
diers. ie Quippe Bufus, diu manipularis, dein centurio, mox 

* '' It belongs to human nature to hate the man whom you have injured." 

+ u Uneasy in his mind, on account of the concealed hatred entertained against 

him by his uncle and grandmother, which was the more bitter because the cause of it 

was unjust." 



424 HISTORICAL WRITING. [LECT. XXXVI. 

castris prsefectus, antiquam duramque militiam revocabat, vetus 
operis et laboris, et eo immitior quia toleraverat." * There was 
room for turning this into a general observation, that they who 
have been educated and hardened in toils, are commonly found 
to be the most severe in requiring the like toils from others. But 
the manner in which Tacitus introduces this sentiment as a stroke 
in the character of Rufus, gives it much more life and spirit. 
This Historian has a particular talent of intermixing after this 
manner, with the course of his narrative, many striking senti- 
ments and useful observations. 

Let us next proceed to consider the proper qualities of Histo- 
rical Narration. It is obvious, that on the manner of narration 
much must depend, as the first notion of History is the recital of 
past facts ; and how much one mode of recital may be preferable 
to another, we shall soon be convinced, by thinking of the dif- 
ferent effects, which the same story, when told by two different 
persons, is found to produce. 

The first virtue of Historical Narration, is Clearness, Order, 
and due Connection. To attain this, the Historian must be 
completely master of his subject ; he must see the whole as at 
one view ; and comprehend the chain and dependence of all its 
parts, that he may introduce every thing in its proper place; 
that he may lead us smoothly along the tract of affairs which are 
recorded, and may always give us the satisfaction of seeing how 
one event arises out of another. Without this, there can be 
neither pleasure nor instruction, in reading History. Much for 
this end will depend on the observance of that unity in the 
general plan and conduct, which, in the preceding Lecture, I 
recommended. Much too will depend on the proper manage- 
ment of transitions, which forms one of the chief ornaments of 
this kind of writing, and is one of the most difficult in execution. 
Nothing tries an Historian's abilities more, than so to lay his 
train beforehand, as to make us pass naturally and agreeably 
from one part of his subject to another ; to employ no clumsy 
and awkward junctures ; and to contrive ways and means of 
forming some union among transactions, which seem to be most 
widely separated from one another. 

In the next place, as History is a very dignified species of 
Composition, gravity must always be maintained in the narration. 
There must be no meanness nor vulgarity in the style ; no 
quaint, nor colloquial phrases ; no affectation of pertness, or of 
wit. -The smart, or the sneering manner of telling a story, is 
inconsistent with the historical character. I do not say, that 
an Historian is never to let himself down. He may sometimes 
do it with propriety, in order to diversify the strain of his nar- 

* " For Rufus, who had long been a common soldier, afterwards a Centurion, and 
at length a general officer, restored the severe military discipline of ancient times. 
Grown old amidst toils and labours, he was the more rigid in imposing them, because he 
had been accustomed to bear them." 



LECT. XXXVI.] HISTORICAL WRITING. 425 

ration, which, if it be perfectly uniform, is apt to become tire- 
some. But he should be careful never to descend too far : and, 
on occasions where a light or ludicrous anecdote is proper to 
be recorded, it is generally better to throw it into a note, than 
to hazard becoming too familiar by introducing it into the body 
of the work. 

But an Historian may possess these qualities of being per- 
spicuous, distinct, and grave, and may, notwithstanding, be a 
dull Writer; in which case we shall reap little benefit from 
his labours. We shall read him without pleasure; or, most 
probably, we shall soon give over reading him at all. He must 
therefore study to render his narration interesting ; which is 
the quality that chiefly distinguishes a Writer of genius and 
eloquence. 

Two things are especially conducive to this ; the first is, a just 
medium in the conduct of narration, between a rapid or crowded 
recital of facts, and a prolix detail. The former embarrasses, 
and the latter tires us. An Historian that would interest us, 
must know when to be concise, and where he ought to enlarge ; 
passing concisely over slight and unimportant events, but dwell- 
ing on such as are striking and considerable in their nature, or 
pregnant with consequences ; preparing beforehand our attention 
to them, and bringing them forth into the most full and conspi- 
cuous light. The next thing he must attend to, is a proper 
selection of the circumstances belonging to those events which 
he chooses to relate fully. General facts make a slight impres- 
sion on the mind. It is by means of circumstances and parti- 
culars properly chosen, that a narration becomes interesting and 
affecting to the reader. These give life, body, and colouring to 
the recital of facts, and enable us to behold them as present, and 
passing before our eyes. It is this employment of circumstances, 
in Narration, that is properly termed Historical Painting. 

In all these virtues of narration, particularly in this last, of 
picturesque descriptive Narration, several of the Ancient His- 
torians eminently excel. Hence, the pleasure that is found in 
reading Herodotus, Thucydides, Xenophon, Livy, Sallust, and 
Tacitus. They are all conspicuous for the art of Narration. 
Herodotus is, at all times, an agreeable Writer, and relates every 
thing with that naivete and simplicity of manner, which never 
fails to interest the Reader. Though the manner of Thucydides 
be more dry and harsh, yet on great occasions, as when he is 
giving an account of the plague of Athens, the Siege of Plataea, 
the sedition in Corcyra, the Defeat of the Athenians in Sicily, 
he displays a very strong and masterly power of description. 
Xenophon's Cyropaedia, and his Anabasis, or retreat of the Ten 
Thousand, are extremely beautiful. The circumstances are 
finely selected, and the narration is easy and engaging ; but 
his Hellenics, or Continuation of the History of Thucydides, 
is a much inferior work. Sallust's Art of Historical Painting in 

G G 



426 HISTORICAL WRITING. [LECT. XXXVI. 

his Catilinarian, but more especially in his Jugurthine War, is 
well known, though his Style is liable to censure, as too studied 
and affected. 

Livy is more unexceptionable in his manner ; and is excelled 
by no historian whatever in the Art of Narration ; several 
remarkable examples might be given from him. His account, 
for instance, of the famous defeat of the Roman Army by the 
Samnites, at the Furcse Caudinae, in the beginning of the ninth 
book, affords one of the most beautiful exemplifications of Histo- 
rical Painting, that is any where to be met with. We have 
first, an exact description of the narrow pass between two moun- 
tains, into which the enemy had decoyed the Romans. When 
they find themselves caught, and no hope of escape left, we are 
made to see, first, their astonishment, next, their indignation, 
and then their dejection, painted in the most lively manner, by 
such circumstances and actions as were natural to persons in their 
situation. The restless and unquiet manner in which they pass 
the night ; the consultations of the Samnites ; the various mea- 
sures proposed to be taken; the messages between the two 
armies, all heighten the scene. At length, in the morning, the 
Consuls return to the Camp, and inform them that they could 
receive no other terms but that of surrendering their arms, and 
passing under the yoke, which was considered as the last mark 
of ignominy for a conquered army. Part of what then follows, 
I shall give in the Author's own words. " Redintegravit luctum 
in castris consulum adventus ; ut vix ab iis abstinerent manus, 
quorum temeritate in eum locum deducti essent. Alii alios in- 
tueri, co%templari arma mox tradenda, et inermes futuras dextras ; 
proponere sibimet ipsi ante oculos, jugum hostile, et ludibria 
victoris, et vultus superbos, et per armatos intermium iter. Inde 
fsedi agminis miserabilem viam ; per sociorum urbes reditum iu 
patriam ac parentes quo ssepe ipsi triumphantes venissent. Se 
solos sine vulnere, sine ferro, sine acie victos ; sibi non stringere 
licuisse gladios, non manum cum hoste conserere ; sibi nequic- 
quam arma, nequicquam vires, nequicquam animos datos., Ha3C 
frementibus, hora fatalis, ignominiaa advenit. Jamprimum cum 
singulis vestimentis, inermes extra vallum abire jussi. Turn a 
consulibus abire lictores jussi, paludamentaque detracta. Tantam 
hoc inter ipsos, qui paulo ante eos dedendos, lacerandosque cen- 
suerant, miserationem fecit, ut suae quisque conditionis oblitus, 
ab ilia deformatione tantaa majestatis, velut ab nefando spectaculo, 
averteret oculos. Primi consules, prope seminudi, sub jugum 
missi," &c. # The rest of the story, which it would be too long 

* "The arrival of the Consuls in the camp, wrought up their passions to such a 
degree, that they could scarcely abstain from laying violent hands on them, as by their 
rashness they had been brought into this situation. They began to look on one another ; 
to cast a melancholy eye on their arms, which were now to be surrendered, and on their 
right hands, which were to become defenceless. The yoke under which they were to 
pass ; the scoffs of the conquerors ; and their haughty looks, when disarmed and stripped, 
they should be led through the hostile lines ; all rose before their eyes. They then 



LECT. XXXVI.] HISTORICAL WRITING. 427 

to insert, is carried on with the same beauty, and full of pic- 
turesque circumstances.* 

Tacitus is another Author eminent for Historical Painting, 
though in a manner altogether different from that of Livy. 
Livy's descriptions are more full, more plain, and natural ; those 
of Tacitus consist in a few bold strokes. He selects one or two 
remarkable circumstances, and sets them before us in a strong, 
and, generally, in a new and uncommon light. Such is the fol- 
lowing picture of the situation of Rome, and of the Emperor 
Galba, when Otho was advancing against him : " Agebatur hue 
illuc Gralba, vario turbae nuctuantis impulsu, completis undique 
basilicis et templis, lugubri prospectu. Neque populi aut plebis 
ulla vox : sed attoniti vultus, et converse ad omnia aures. Non 
tumultus, non quies ; sed quale magni metus et magna? irse, 
silentium est." f No image in any Poet is more strong and 
expressive than this last stroke of the description: "Non tumultus, 
non quies ; sed quale," &c. This is a conception of the sublime 
kind, and discovers high genius. Indeed, throughout all his 
work, Tacitus shows the hand of a master. As he is profound 

looked forward to the sad journey which awaited them, when they were to pass as a 
vanquished and disgraced army through the territories of their allies, by whom they had 
often been beheld returning in triumph to their families and native land. They alone, 
they muttered, to one another, without an engagement, without a single blow, had been 
conquered. To their hard fate it fell, never to have had it in their power to draw a 
sword, or to look an enemy in the face ; to them only, arms, strength, and courage had 
been given in vain. While they were thus giving vent to their indignation, the fatal 
moment of their ignominy arrived. First, they were all commanded to come forth 
from the camp, without armour, and in a single garment. Next, orders were given, 
that the Consuls should be left without their Lictors, and that they should be stripped 
of their robes. Such commiseration did this affront excite among them, who, but 
a little before, had been for delivering up those very Consuls to the enemy, and for 
putting them to death, that every one forgot his own condition, and turned his eyes 
aside from this infamous disgrace, suffered by the consular dignity, as from a spectacle, 
which was tooMetestable to be beheld. The Consuls, almost half-naked, were first made 
to pass under the yoke," &c. 

* The description which Caesar gives of the consternation occasioned in his camp, by 
the accounts which were spread among his troops, of the ferocity, the size, and the courage 
of the Germans, affords an instance of Historical Painting, executed in a simple manner ; 
and, at the same time, exhibiting a natural and lively scene. '' Dum paucos dies ad 
Vesontionem moratur, ex percunctatione nostrorum, vocibusque GalJorum ac merca- 
torum, qui ingenti magnitudine corporum Germanos, incredibili virtute, atque exer- 
citatione in armis esse praedicabant ; saepe numero sese cum iis congressos, ne vultum 
quidem atque aciem oculorum ferre potuisse ; tantus subito terror omnem exercitum 
occupavit, ut non mediocriter omnium mentes animosque perturbaret. Hie primum 
ortus est a tribunis militum, ac praefectis, reliquisque qui ex urbe, amicitias causa, 
Caesarum secuti, suum periculum miserabantur, quod non magnum in re mihtari usum 
habebant quorum alius, alia causa, illata quam sibi ad proficiscendum necessariam esse 
diceret, petebat ut ejus voluntate discedere Lceret. Nonnulli pudore adducti, ut timoris, 
suspicionem vitarent remanebant. Hi neque vultuin fingere, neque interdum lacrymas 
tenere poterant. Abditi in tabernaculis, aut suum fatum querebantur, aut cum familiar- 
ibus suis, commune periculum miserabantur. Vulgo, totis castris testamenta obsigna- 
bantur." De Bell. Gall. L. I. 

t " Galba was driven to and fro by the tide of the multitude, shoving him from place 
to place. The temples and public buildings were filled with crowds of a dismal appear- 
ance. No clamours were heard, either from the citizens or from the rabble. Their 
countenances were filled with consternation ; their ears were employed in listening with 
anxiety. It was not a tumult ; it was not quietness : it was the silence of terror, and 
of wrath." 

G G 2 



428 HISTORICAL WRITING. [LECT. XXXVI. 

in reflection, so he is striking in description, and pathetic in sen- 
timent. The Philosopher, the Poet, and the Historian all meet 
in him. Though the period of which he writes may be reckoned 
unfortunate for an Historian, he has made it afford us many- 
interesting exhibitions of human nature. The relations which 
he gives of the deaths of several eminent personages are as 
affecting as the deepest tragedies. He paints with a glowing 
pencil ; and possesses, beyond all writers, the talent of painting, 
not to the imagination merely, but to the heart. With many of 
the most distinguished beauties, he is, at the same time, not a 
perfect model for History ; and such as have formed themselves 
upon him, have seldom been successful. He is to be admired, 
rather than imitated. In his reflections, he is too refined ; in his 
style too concise, sometimes quaint and affected, often abrupt ancf 
obscure. History seems to require a more natural, flowing, and 
popular manner. 

The Ancients employed one embellishment of History, which 
the Moderns have laid aside, I mean Orations, which, on weighty 
occasions, they put into the mouths of some of their chief per- 
sonages. By means of these, they diversified their history ; they 
conveyed both moral and political instruction ; and, by the op- 
posite arguments which were employed, they gave us a view of 
the sentiments of different parties. Thucydides was the first 
who introduced this method. The orations with which his' His- 
tory abounds, and those too of some other Greek and Latin 
Historians, are among the most valuable remains which we have 
of Ancient Eloquence. How beautiful soever they are, it may 
be much questioned, I think, whether they find a proper place 
in History. I am rather inclined to think that they are unsuit- 
able to it. For they form a mixture which is unnatural in 
History, of fiction with truth. We know that these Orations 
are entirely of the Author's own composition, and that he has 
introduced some celebrated person haranguing in a public place, 
purely that he might have an opportunity of showing his own 
eloquence, or delivering his own sentiments, under the name 
of that person. This is a sort of poetical liberty which does not 
suit the gravity of history, throughout which an air of the 
strictest truth should always reign. Orations may be an em- 
bellishment to History ; such might also Poetical Compositions 
be, introduced under the name of some of the personages men- 
tioned in the Narration, who were known to have possessed 
poetical talents. But neither the one nor the other finds a 
proper place in History. Instead of inserting formal Orations, 
the method adopted by later Writers seems better and more 
natural ; that of the Historian, on some great occasion, deliver- 
ing, in his own person, the sentiments and reasonings of the 
opposite parties, or the substance of what was understood to be 
spoken in some public Assembly ; which he may do without the 
liberty of fiction. 



LECT. XXXVI.] HISTORICAL WRITING. 429 

The drawing of characters is one of the most splendid, and, at 
the same time, one of the most difficult ornaments of Historical 
Composition. For characters are generally considered as pro- 
fessed exhibitions of fine writing ; and an Historian who seeks 
to shine in them, is frequently in danger of carrying refinement 
to excess, from a desire of appearing very profound and pene- 
trating. He brings together so many contrasts, and subtle op- 
positions of qualities, that we are rather dazzled with sparkling 
expressions, than entertained with any clear conception of a 
human character. A writer who would characterise in an in- 
structive and masterly manner, should be simple in his style, 
and should avoid all quaintness and affectation ; at the same 
time, not contenting himself with giving us general outlines 
only, but descending into those peculiarities which mark a 
character in its most strong and distinctive features. The 
Greek Historians sometimes give eulogisms, but rarely draw 
full and professed characters. The two Ancient Authors who 
have laboured in this part of Historical Composition most, are 
Sallust and Tacitus. 

As History is a species of Writing designed for the instruction 
of mankind, sound morality should always reign in it. Both in 
describing characters and in relating transactions, the Author 
should always show himself to be on the side of virtue. To 
deliver moral instruction in a formal manner falls not within his 
province ; but both as a good man, and as a good Writer we ex- 
pect that he should discover sentiments of respect for virtue, 
and an indignation at flagrant vice. To appear neutral and 
indifferent with respect to good and bad characters, and to affect 
a crafty and political, rather than a moral turn of thought, will, 
besides other bad effects, derogate greatly from the weight of 
Historical Composition, and will render the strain of it much 
more cold and uninteresting. We are always most interested in 
the transactions which are going on, when our sympathy is 
awakened by the story, and when we become engaged in the 
fate of the actors. But this effect can never be produced by 
a Writer who is deficient in sensibility and moral feeling. 

As the observations which I have hitherto made have mostly 
respected the Ancient Historians, it may naturally be expected 
that I should also take some notice of the Moderns who have 
excelled in this kind of Writing. 

The country in Europe where the Historical Genius has, 
in later ages, shone forth with most lustre, beyond doubt, is 
Italy. The national character of the Italians seems favourable 
to it. They were always distinguished as an acute, penetrating, 
reflecting people, remarkable for political sagacity and wisdom, 
and who early addicted themselves to the arts of Writing. Ac- 
cordingly, soon after the restoration of letters, Machiavel, Guic- 
ciardin, Davila, Bentivoglio, Father Paul, became highly con- 
spicuous for historical merit. They all appear to have conceived 



430 HISTORICAL WRITING. [LECT. XXXVI. 

very just ideas ;"of History; and are agreeable, instructive, and 
interesting Writers. In their manner of narration, they are 
formed upon the Ancients ; some of them, as Bentivoglio and 
Guicciardin, have, in imitation of them, introduced Orations 
into their History. In the profoundness and distinctness of 
their political views, they may, perhaps, be esteemed to have 
surpassed the Ancients. Critics have, at the same time, ob- 
served some imperfections in each of them. Machiavel, in his 
History of Florence, is not altogether so interesting as one would 
expect an author of his abilities to be ; either through his own de- 
fect, or through some unhappiness in his subject, which led him 
into a very minute detail of the intrigues of one city. Guicciardin, 
at all times sensible and profound, is taxed for dwelling so long on 
the Tuscan affairs as to be sometimes tedious ; a defect which 
is also imputed, occasionally, to the judicious Father Paul. 
Bentivoglio, in his excellent History of the Wars of Flanders, 
is accused for approaching to the florid and pompous manner ; 
and Davila, though one of the most agreeable and entertain- 
ing Relaters, has manifestly this defect, of spreading a sort 
of uniformity over all his characters, by representing them as 
guided too regularly by political interest. But, although some 
such objections may be made to these Authors, they deserve, 
upon the whole, to be placed in the first rank of Modern 
Historical Writers. The Wars of Flanders, written in Latin 
by Famianus Strada, is a book of some note; but is not en- 
titled to the same reputation as the works of the other His- 
torians I have named. Strada is too violently partial to the 
Spanish cause; and too open a Panegyrist of the Prince of 
Parma. He is florid, diffuse, and an affected imitator of the 
manner and style of Livy. 

Among the French, as there has been much good Writing 
in many kinds, so also in the Historical. That ingenious na- 
tion, who have done so much honour to Modern Literature, 
possess, in an eminent degree, the talent of Narration. Many 
of their later Historical Writers are spirited, lively, and 
agreeable; and some of them not deficient in profoundness 
and penetration. They have not, however, produced any 
such capital Historians as the Italians whom I mentioned 
above. 

Our Island, till within these few years, was not eminent for 
its historical productions. Early, indeed, Scotland acquired 
reputation by means of the celebrated Buchanan'. He is an 
elegant Writer, classical in his Latinity, and agreeable both in 
narration and description. But one cannot but suspect him 
to be more attentive to elegance, than to accuracy. Ac- 
customed to form his political notions wholly upon the plans 
of ancient governments, the feudal system seems never to 
have entered into his thoughts ; and as this was the basis of 
the Scottish constitution, his political views are, of course in- 



LECT. XXXYI.] HISTORICAL WRITING. 431 

accurate and imperfect. When he comes to the transactions 
of his own times, there is such a change in his manner of 
writing, and such an asperity in his style, that, on what side 
soever the truth lies with regard to those dubious and long con- 
troverted facts which make the subject of that part of his work, 
it is impossible to clear him from being deeply tinctured with 
the spirit of party. 

Among the older English Historians, the most considerable is 
Lord Clarendon. Though he writes as the professed apologist 
of one side, yet there appears more impartiality in his rela- 
tion of facts than might at first be expected. A great spirit 
of virtue and probity runs through his work. He maintains 
all the dignity of an Historian. His sentences, indeed, are 
often too long, and his general manner is prolix : but his style, 
on the whole, is manly ; and his merit as an Historian, is much 
beyond mediocrity. Bishop Burnet is lively and perspicuous : 
but he has hardly any other historical merit. His style is too 
careless and familiar for History; his characters are, indeed, 
marked with a bold and strong hand : but they are generally light 
and satirical ; and he abounds so much in little stories concern- 
ing himself, that he resembles more a Writer of Memoirs than 
of History. During a long period, English Historical Authors 
seemed to aim at nothing higher than an exact relation of facts ; 
till of late the distinguished names of Hume, Robertson, and 
Gibbon, have raised the British character, in this species of 
Writing, to high reputation and dignity. 

I observed, in the preceding Lecture, that Annals, Memoirs, 
and Lives, are the inferior kinds of Historical Composition. It 
will be proper, before dismissing this subject, to make a few 
observations upon them. Annals are commonly understood to 
signify a collection of facts, digested according to chronological 
order ; rather serving for the materials of History, than aspiring 
to the name of History themselves. All that is required, there- 
fore, in a Writer of such Annals, is to be faithful, distinct, and 
complete. 

Memoirs denote a sort of Composition, in which an Author 
does not pretend to give full information of all the facts respect- 
ing the period of which he writes, but only to relate what he 
himself had access to know, or what he was concerned in, 
or what illustrates the conduct of some person, or the circum- 
stances of some transaction, which he chooses for his subject. 
From a Writer of Memoirs, therefore, is not expected the 
same profound research, or enlarged information, as from a 
Writer of History. He is not subject to the same laws of 
unvarying dignity and gravity. He may talk freely of himself ; 
he may descend into the most familiar anecdotes. What is 
chiefly required of him is, that he be sprightly and interesting ; 
and, especially, that he inform us of things that are useful and 
curious; that he convey to us some sort of knowledge worth 



432 HISTORICAL WRITING. [LECT. XXXVI. 

the acquiring. This is a species of Writing very bewitching to 
such as love to write concerning themselves, and conceive every 
transaction of which they had a share to be of singular impor- 
tance. There is no wonder, therefore, that a nation so sprightly 
as the French should, for two centuries past, have been pouring 
forth a whole flood of Memoirs ; the greatest part of which are 
little more than agreeable trifles. 

Some, however, must be excepted from this general character; 
two in particular; the Memoirs of the Cardinal de Retz, and 
those of the Duke of Sully. From Retz's Memoirs, besides the 
pleasure of agreeable and lively narration, we may derive also 
much instruction, and much knowledge of human nature. 
Though his politics be often too fine spun, yet the Memoirs of 
a professed factious leader, such as the Cardinal was, wherein 
he draws both his own character, and that of several great 
personages of his time, so fully, cannot be read by any person of 
good sense without benefit. The Memoirs of the Duke of 
Sully, in the state in which they are now given to the Public, 
have great merit, and deserve to be mentioned with particular 
praise. No Memoirs approach more nearly to the usefulness, 
and the dignity of a full legitimate History. They have this 
peculiar advantage, of giving us a beautiful display of two of the 
most illustrious characters which history presents ; Sully himself, 
one of the ablest and most incorrupt ministers, and Henry IV. 
one of the greatest and most amiable Princes of modern times. 
I know few books more full of virtue and of good sense than 
Sully's Memoirs ; few, therefore, more proper to form both the 
heads and the hearts of such as are designed for public business, 
and action, in the world. 

Biography, or the Writing of Lives, is a very useful kind of 
Composition ; less formal and stately than History ; but to the 
bulk of Readers, perhaps, no less instructive ; as it affords them 
the opportunity of seeing the characters and tempers, the 
virtues and failings of eminent men fully displayed ; and admits 
them into a more thorough and intimate acquaintance with such 
persons than History generally allows. For a Writer of Lives 
may descend, with propriety, to minute circumstances, and 
familiar incidents. It is expected of him, that he is to give the 
private, as well as the public life, of the person whose actions he 
records ; nay, it is from private life, from familiar, domestic, and 
seemingly trivial occurrences, that we often receive most light 
into the real character. In this species of Writing, Plutarch 
has no small merit ; and to him we stand indebted for much of 
the knowledge that we possess, concerning several of the most 
eminent personages of antiquity. His matter is, indeed, better 
than his manner ; as he cannot lay claim to any peculiar beauty 
or elegance. His judgment too, and his accuracy, have some- 
times been taxed : but whatever defects of this kind he may be 
liable to, his Lives of Eminent Men will always be considered 



LECT. XXXVI.] HISTOEICAL WRITING. 433 

as a valuable treasure of instruction. He is remarkable for 
being one of the most humane "Writers of all antiquity ; less 
dazzled than many of them are, with the exploits of valour and 
ambition ; and fond of displaying his great men to us, in the 
more gentle lights of retirement and private life. 

I cannot conclude the subject of History, without taking 
notice of a very great improvement which has, of late years, 
begun to be introduced into Historical Composition ; I mean, 
a more particular attention than was formerly given to laws, 
customs, commerce, religion, literature, and every other thing 
that tends to show the spirit and genius of nations. It is now 
understood to be the business of an able Historian to exhibit 
manners, as well as facts and events ; and assuredly, whatever 
displays the state and life of mankind, in different periods, and 
illustrates the progress of the human mind, is more useful and 
interesting than the detail of sieges and battles. The person, 
to whom we are most indebted for the introduction of this im- 
provement into History, is the celebrated M. Voltaire, whose 
genius has shone with such surprising lustre, in so many differ- 
ent parts of literature. His Age of Louis XIV. was one of the 
first great productions in this taste ; and soon drew throughout 
all Europe, that general attention, and received that high appro- 
bation, which so ingenious and eloquent a production merited. 
His Essay on the general History of Europe, since the days of 
Charlemagne, is not to be considered either as a History, or the 
proper plan of an Historical Work; but only as a series of 
observations on the chief events that have happened throughout 
several centuries, and on the changes that successively took 
place in the spirit and manners of different nations. Though, in 
some dates and facts, it may, perhaps, be inaccurate, and is 
tinged with those particularities which unhappily distinguish 
Voltaire's manner of thinking on religious subjects, yet it con- 
tains so many enlarged and instructive views, as justly to merit 
the attention of all who either read or write the History of those 



434 PHILOSOPHICAL WRITING. [LECT. XXXVII. 



LECTUKE XXXVII. 

PHILOSOPHICAL WRITING — DIALOGUE — EPISTOLARY WRITING 
— FICTITIOUS HISTORY. 

As History is both a very dignified species of Composition, 
and by the regular form which it assumes, falls directly under 
the laws of Criticism, I discoursed of it fully in the two pre- 
ceding Lectures. The remaining species of Composition, in 
Prose, afford less room for critical observation. 

Philosophical Writing, for instance, will not lead us into any 
long discussion. As the professed object of Philosophy is to 
convey instruction, and as they who study it are supposed to do 
so for instruction, not for entertainment, the style, the form, and 
dress of such Writings, are less material objects. They are 
objects, however, that must not be wholly neglected. He who 
attempts to instruct mankind, without studying, at the same 
time, to engage their attention, and to interest them in his 
subject by his manner of exhibiting it, is not likely to prove 
successful. The same truths, and reasonings, delivered, in a 
dry and cold manner, or with a proper measure of elegance and 
beauty, will make very different impressions on the minds of 
men. 

It is manifest that every Philosophical Writer must study the 
utmost perspicuity : and, by reflecting on what was formerly 
delivered on the subject of perspicuity, with respect both to 
single words, and the construction of Sentences, we may be 
convinced that this is a study which demands considerable atten- 
tion to the rules of Style, and good Writing. Beyond mere 
perspicuity, strict accuracy and precision are required in a Philo- 
sophical Writer. He must employ no words of uncertain mean- 
ing, no loose nor indeterminate expressions ; and should avoid 
using words which are seemingly synonymous, without care- 
fully attending to the variation which they make upon the idea. 

To be clear, then, and precise, is one requisite which we have 
a title to demand from every Philosophical Writer. He may 
possess this quality, and be, at the same time, a very dry Writer. 
He should, therefore, study some degree of embellishment, in 
order to render his composition pleasing and graceful. One of 
the most agreeable, and one of the most useful embellishments 
which a Philosopher can employ, consists in illustrations taken 
from historical facts, and the characters of men. All moral and 
political subjects naturally afford scope for these ; and wherever 
there is room for employing them, they seldom fail of producing 
a happy effect. They diversify the Composition ; they relieve 
the mind from the fatigue of mere reasoning, and at the same 
time raise more full conviction than any reasonings produce : 
for they take Philosophy out of the abstract, and give weight to 



LECT. XXXVII.] DIALOGUE. 435 

Speculation, by showing its connexion with real life, and the 
actions of mankind. 

Philosophical Writing admits besides of a polished, a neat, 
and elegant Style. It admits of Metaphors, Comparisons, and 
all the calm Figures of Speech, by which an Author may con- 
vey his sense to the understanding with clearness and force, at 
the same time that he entertains the imagination. He must 
take great care, however, that all his ornaments be of the 
chastest kind, never partaking of the florid or the tumid ; which 
is so unpardonable in a professed Philosopher, that it is much 
better for him to err on the side of naked simplicity, than on that 
of too much ornament. Some of the Ancients, as Plato and 
Cicero, have left us Philosophical Treatises composed with much 
elegance and beauty. Seneca has been long and justly censured 
for the affectation that appears in his Style. He is too fond of 
a certain brilliant and sparkling manner ; of antithesis and 
quaint sentences. It cannot be denied, at the same time, that 
he often expresses himself with much liveliness and force; though 
his Style, upon the whole, is far from deserving imitation. In 
English, Mr. Locke's celebrated Treatise on Human Under- 
standing, may be pointed out as a model, on the one hand, of the 
greatest clearness and distinctness of Philosophical Style, with 
very little approach to ornament ; Lord Shaftesbury's Writings, 
on the other hand, exhibit Philosophy dressed up with all the 
ornament which it can admit ; perhaps with more than is per- 
fectly suited to it. 

Philosophical Composition sometimes assumes a form, under 
which it mingles more with works of taste, when carried on in 
the way of Dialogue and Conversation. Under this form the 
Ancients have given us some of their chief Philosophical Works ; 
and several of the Moderns have endeavoured to imitate them. 
Dialogue Writing may be executed in two ways, either as direct 
conversation, where none but the Speakers appear, which is the 
method that Plato uses; or as the recital of a conversation, 
where the Author himself appears, and gives an account of what 
passed in discourse ; which is the method that Cicero generally 
follows. But though those different methods make some varia- 
tion in the form, yet the nature of the Composition is at bottom 
the same in both, and subject to the same laws. 

A Dialogue, in one or other of these forms, on some philoso- 
phical, moral, or critical subject, when it is well conducted, 
stands in a high rank among the Works of Taste ; but it is 
much more difficult in the execution than is commonly imagined. 
For it requires more, than merely the introduction of different 
persons speaking in succession. It ought to be a natural and 
spirited representation of real conversation ; exhibiting the 
characters and manners of the several Speakers, and suiting to 
the character of each that peculiarity of thought and expression 
which distinguishes him from another. A Dialogue, thus con- 



436 DIALOGUE. [LECT. XXXVII. 

ducted, gives the Reader a very agreeable entertainment ; as by 
means of the debate going on among the personages, he receives 
a fair and full view of both sides of the argument ; and is, at 
the same time, . amused with polite conversation, and with a 
display of consistent and well-supported characters. An Author, 
therefore, who has genius for executing such a Composition after 
this manner, has it in his power both to instruct and to please. 

But the greatest part of Modern Dialogue Writers have no 
idea of any Composition of this sort; and bating the outward 
forms of conversation, and that one speaks, and another answers, 
it is quite the same as if the Author spoke in person throughout 
the whole. He sets up a Philotheus, perhaps, and a Philatheos, 
or an A and a B. ; who, after mutual compliments, and after 
admiring the fineness of the morning or evening, and the beauty 
of the prospects around them, enter into conference concerning 
some grave matter ; and all that we know farther of them is, 
that the one personates the Author, a man of learning, no 
doubt, and of good principles ; and the other is a man of straw, 
set up to propose some trivial objections ; over which the first gains 
a most entire triumph, and leaves his sceptical antagonist at the 
end much humbled, and generally convinced of his error. This is 
a very frigid and insipid manner of writing ; the more so, as it 
is an attempt towards something, which we see the Author 
cannot support. It is the form, without the spirit of conversa- 
tion. The Dialogue serves no purpose, but to make awkward 
interruptions ; and we should with more patience hear the 
Author continuing always to reason himself, and to remove the 
objections that are made to his principles, than be troubled with 
the unmeaning appearance of two persons, whom we see to be 
in reality no more than one. 

Among the Ancients, Plato is eminent for the beauty of his 
Dialogues. The scenery, and the circumstances of many of 
them, are beautifully painted. The characters of the Sophists, 
with whom Socrates disputed, are well drawn ; a variety of per- 
sonages are exhibited to us ; we are introduced into a real con- 
versation, often supported with much life and spirit, after the 
Socratic manner. For richness and beauty of imagination, no 
Philosophic Writer, Ancient or Modern, is comparable to Plato. 
The only fault of his imagination is, such an excess of fertility 
as allows it sometimes to obscure his judgment. It frequently 
carries him into Allegory, Fiction, Enthusiasm, and the airy 
regions of Mystical Theology. The Philosopher is, at times, 
lost in the Poet. But whether we be edified with the matter or 
not (and much edification he often affords), we are always enter- 
tained with the manner ; and left with a strong impression of 
the sublimity of the Author's genius. 

Cicero's Dialogues, or those recitals of conversations which 
he has introduced into several of his Philosophical and Critical 
Works, are not so spirited, nor so characteristical as those of 



LECT. XXXVII.] EPISTOLARY WRITING. 437 

Plato. Yet some, as that " De Oratore" especially, are agreeable 
and well supported. They show us conversation carried on 
among some of the principal persons of Ancient Rome, with 
freedom, good-breeding, and dignity. The Author of the 
elegant Dialogue " De Causis Corruptae Eloquentiae," which is 
annexed sometimes to the works of Quinctilian, and sometimes 
to those of Tacitus, has happily imitated, perhaps has excelled 
Cicero, in this manner of writing. 

Lucian is a Dialogue Writer of much eminence ; though his 
subjects are seldom such as can entitle him to be ranked among 
Philosophical Authors. He has given the model of the light 
and humorous Dialogue, and has carried it to great perfection. 
A character of levity, and at the same time of wit and penetra- 
tion, distinguishes all his writings. His great object was, to 
expose the follies of superstition, and the Pedantry of Philo- 
sophy, which prevailed in his age ; and he could not have taken 
any more successful method for this end, than what he has 
employed in his dialogues, especially in those of the Gods and 
of the Dead, which are full of pleasantry and satire. In this 
invention of Dialogues of the Dead, he has been followed by 
several Modern Authors. Fontenelle, in particular, has given 
us Dialogues of this sort, which are sprightly and agreeable ; 
but as for characters, whoever his personages be, they all 
become Frenchmen in his hands. Indeed few things in com- 
position are more difficult, than in the course of a Moral Dia- 
logue to exhibit characters properly distinguished. As calm 
conversation furnishes none of those assistances for bringing 
characters into light, which the active scenes, and interesting 
situations of the Drama, afford. Hence few Authors are 
eminent for Characteristical Dialogue on grave subjects. One 
of the most remarkable in the English Language, is a Writer of 
the last age, Dr. Henry More, in his Divine Dialogues, relating 
to the foundations of Natural Religion. Though his Style 
be now in some measure obsolete, and his Speakers be marked 
with the Academic stiffness of those times, yet the Dialogue is 
animated by a variety of character and a sprightliness of Con- 
versation, beyond what are commonly met with in Writings of 
this kind. Bishop Berkeley's Dialogues concerning the existence 
of matter, do not attempt any display of Characters ; but furnish 
an instance of a very abstract subject, rendered clear and 
intelligible by means of Conversation properly managed. 

I proceed next to make some observations on Epistolary 
Writing : which possesses a kind of middle place between the 
serious and amusing species of Composition. Epistolary Writing 
appears, at first view, to stretch into a very wide field. For 
there is no subject whatever, on which one may not convey his 
thoughts to the Public, in the form of a letter. Lord Shaftes- 
bury, for instance, Mr. Harris, and several other Writers, have 
chosen to give this form to philosophical treatises. But this is 



438 EPISTOLARY WRITING. [LECT. XXXVII. 

not sufficient to class such treatises under the head of Epistolary 
Composition. Though they bear, in the title-page, a Letter to 
a Friend, after the first address, the Friend disappears, and we see 
that it is, in truth, the Public with whom the author corresponds. 
Seneca's Epistles are of this sort. There is no probability that 
they ever passed in correspondence as real letters. They are no 
other than miscellaneous dissertations on moral subjects ; which 
the Author, for his convenience, chose to put into the epistolary 
form. Even where one writes a real letter on some formal topic, 
as of moral or religious consolation to a person under distress, 
such as Sir William Temple has written to the Countess of 
Essex on the death of her daughter, he is at liberty, on such 
occasions, to write wholly as a Divine or as a Philosopher, and 
to assume the style and manner of one, without reprehension. 
We consider the Author not as writing a Letter, but as com- 
posing a discourse, suited particularly to the circumstances of 
some one person. 

Epistolary Writing becomes a distinct species of Composition, 
subject to the cognizance of Criticism, only, or chiefly, when it 
is of the easy and familiar kind ; when it is conversation carried 
on upon paper, between two friends at a distance. Such an 
intercourse, when well conducted, may be rendered very agreeable 
to Readers of taste. If the subject of the letters be important, 
they will be the more valuable. Even though there should be 
nothing very considerable in the subject, yet if the spirit and 
turn of the correspondence be agreeable ; if they be written in 
a sprightly manner, and with native grace and ease, they may 
still be entertaining ; more especially if there be any thing to 
interest us, in the characters of those who write them. Hence 
the curiosity which the Public has always discovered, concerning 
the Letters of eminent persons. We expect in them to discover 
somewhat of their real character. It is childish indeed to 
expect, that in Letters we are to find the whole heart of the 
Author unveiled. Concealment and disguise take place, more 
or less, in all human intercourse. But still, as Letters from one 
friend to another, make the nearest approach to conversation, we 
may expect to see more of a character displayed in these than 
in other productions, which are studied for public view. We 
please ourselves with beholding the writer in a situation which 
allows him to be at his ease, and to give vent occasionally to the 
overflowings of his heart. 

Much, therefore, of the merit, and the agreeableness of 
Epistolary Writing, will depend on its introducing us into some 
acquaintance with the Writer. There, if any where, we look 
for the Man, not for the Author. Its first and fundamental 
requisite is, to be natural and simple ; for a stiff and laboured 
manner is as bad in a Letter as it is in Conversation. This 
does not banish sprightliness and wit. These are graceful in 
Letters, just as they are in Conversation; when they flow easily, 



LECT. XXXVII.] EPISTOLARY WRITING, 439 

and without being studied ; when employed so as to season, not 
to cloy. One who, either in Conversation or in Letters, affects 
to shine and to sparkle always, will not please long. The Style 
of Letters should not be too highly polished. It ought to be 
neat and correct, but no more. All nicety about words, betrays 
study ; and hence musical periods, and appearances of number 
and harmony in arrangement, should be carefully avoided in 
Letters. The best Letters are commonly such as the Authors 
have written with most facility. What the heart or the 
imagination dictates, always flows readily ; but where there is 
no subject to warm or interest these, constraint appears ; and 
hence, those Letters of mere compliment, congratulation, or 
affected condolence, which have cost the Authors most labour in 
composing, and which, for that reason, they perhaps consider as 
their masterpieces, never fail of being the most disagreeable and 
insipid to the Readers. 

It ought, at the same time, to be remembered, that the ease 
and simplicity which I have recommended in Epistolary Cor- 
respondence, are not to be understood as importing entire 
carelessness. In writing to the most intimate friend, a certain 
degree of attention, both to the subject and the style, is requisite 
and becoming. It is no more than what we owe both to our- 
selves, and to the friend with whom we correspond. A slovenly 
and negligent manner of Writing, is a disobliging mark of want 
of respect. The 'liberty, besides, of writing Letters with too 
careless a hand, is apt to betray persons into imprudence in 
what they write. The first requisite, both in conversation and 
correspondence, is to attend to all the proper decorums which 
our own character, and that of others, demand. An imprudent 
expression in conversation may be forgotten and pass away; 
but when we take the pen into our hand, we must remember, 
that, " Litera scripta manet." 

Pliny's Letters are one of the most celebrated collections 
which the Ancients have given us, in the epistolary way. They 
are elegant and polite ; and exhibit a very pleasing and amiable 
view of the author. But, according to the vulgar phrase, they 
smell too .much of the lamp. They are too elegant and fine ; 
and it is not easy to avoid thinking, that the Author is casting 
an eye towards the Public, when he is appearing to write 
only for his friends. Nothing indeed is more difficult, than 
for an Author, who publishes his own Letters, to divest him- 
self altogether of attention to the opinion of the world in what 
he says; by which means, he becomes much less agreeable than 
a man of parts would be, if, without any constraint of this sort, 
he were. writing to his intimate friend. 

Cicero's Epistles, though not so showy as those of Pliny, are, 
on several accounts, a far more valuable collection ; indeed, the 
most valuable collection of Letters extant in any language. 
They are Letters of real business, written to the greatest men of 



440 EPISTOLARY WRITING. [LECT. XXXIII. 

the age, composed with purity and elegance, but without the 
least affectation ; and, what adds greatly to their merit, written 
without any intention of being published to the world. For it 
appears, that Cicero never kept copies of his own Letters ; and 
we are wholly indebted to the care of his freed-man Tyro 
for the large collection that was made, after his death, of those 
which are now extant, amounting to near a thousands They 
contain the most authentic materials of the history of that age ; 
and are the last monuments which remain of Rome in its free 
state ; the greatest part of them being written during that 
important crisis, when the the Republic was on the point of 
ruin; the most interesting situation, perhaps, which is to be 
found in the affairs of mankind. To his intimate friends, 
especially to Atticus, Cicero lays open himself and his heart, 
with entire freedom. In the course of his correspondence with 
others, we are introduced into acquaintance with several of 
the principal personages of Rome; and it is remarkable, that 
most of Cicero's correspondents, as well as himself, are elegant 
and polite Writers ; which serves to heighten our idea of 
the taste and manners of that age. 

The most distinguished Collection of Letters in the English 
Language, is that of Mr. Pope, Dean Swift, and their friends ; 
partly published in Mr. Pope's Works, and partly in those 
of Dean Swift. This collection is, on the whole, an entertaining 
and agreeable one ; and contains much wit and refinement. It 
is not, however, altogether free from the fault which I imputed 
to Pliny's Epistles, of too much study and refinement. In the 
variety of Letters from different persons, contained in that 
Collection, we find many that are written with ease, and a 
beautiful simplicity. Those of Dr. Arbuthnot, in particular, 
always deserve that praise. Dean Swift's also are unaffected ; 
and as a proof of their being so, they exhibit his character fully, 
with all its defects ; though it were to be wished, for the 
honour of his memory, that his Epistolary Correspondence had 
not been drained to the dregs, by so many successive publi- 
cations as have been given to the world. Several of Lord 
Bolingbroke's, and of Bishop Atterbury's Letters, are masterly. 
The censure of writing Letters in too artificial a manner falls 
heaviest on Mr. Pope himself. There is visibly more study, 
and less of nature and the heart in his Letters, than in those 
of some of his correspondents. He had formed himself on the 
manner of Voiture, and is too fond of writing like a wit. His 
Letters to Ladies are full of affectation. Even in writing to 
his friends, how forced an Introduction is the following, of 
a letter to Mr. Addison: l( I am more joyed at your return, 
than I should be at that of the- Sun, as much as I wish for 

. * See his Letter to Atticus, which was written a year or two before his death, in 
which he tells him, in answer to some inquiries concerning his Epistles, that he had no 
collection of them, and that Tyro had only about seventy of them. Ad Att. 16, 5. 



LECT. XXXYII.] FICTITIOUS HISTOEY. 441 

him in this melancholy wet season; but it is his fate too, like 
your's, to be displeasing to owls and obscene animals, who cannot 
bear his lustre." How stiff a compliment it is which he pays to 
Bishop Atterbury ! " Though the noise and daily bustle for the 
Public be now over, I dare say you are still tendering its welfare ; 
as the Sun in winter, when seeming to retire from the world, is 
preparing warmth and benedictions for a better season." This 
sentence might be tolerated in a harangue ; but is very unsuit- 
able to the Style of one friend corresponding with another. 

The gaiety and vivacity of the French genius appear to much 
advantage in their Letters, and have given birth to several 
agreeable publications. In the last age, Balzac and Voiture 
were the two most celebrated Epistolary Writers. Balzac's 
reputation indeed soon declined, on account of his swelling 
periods and pompous Style. But Voiture continued long a 
favourite Author. His Composition is extremely sparkling ; 
he shows a great deal of wit, and can trifle in the most enter- 
taining manner. His only fault is, that he is too open and 
professed a wit to be thoroughly agreeable as a Letter Writer. 
The Letters of Madame de Sevigne are now esteemed the most 
accomplished model of a familiar correspondence. They turn 
indeed very much upon trifles, the incidents of the day, and 
the news of the town ; and they are overloaded with extravagant 
compliments, and expressions of fondness, to her favourite 
daughter ; but withal, they show such perpetual sprightliness, 
they contain such easy and varied narration, and so many 
strokes of the most lively and beautiful painting, perfectly free 
from any affectation, that they are justly entitled to high 
praise. The Letters of Lady Mary Wortley Montague are 
not unworthy of being named after those of Mad. de Sevigne. 
They have much of the French ease and vivacity ; and retain 
more the character of agreeable Epistolary Style, than perhaps 
any Letters which have appeared in the English language. 

There remains to be treated of, another Species of Com- 
position in Prose, which comprehends a very numerous, though, 
in general, a very insignificant class of Writings, known by the 
the name of Romances and Novels. These may, at first view, 
seem too insignificant to deserve that any particular notice 
should be taken of them. But I cannot be of this opinion. 
Mr. Fletcher of Salton, in one of his Tracts quotes it as the say- 
ing of a wise man, that give him the making of all the ballads 
of a nation, he would allow any one that pleased to make their 
laws. The saying was founded on reflection and good sense, 
and is applicable to the subject now before us. For any kind 
of Writing, how trifling soever in appearance, that obtains 
a general currency, and especially that early pre-occupies the 
imagination of the youth of both sexes, must demand particular 
attention. Its influence is likely to be considerable, both on the 
morals and taste of a nation. 

H H 



442 FICTITIOUS HISTORY. [LECT. XXXVII. 

In fact, Fictitious Histories might be employed for very 
useful purposes. They furnish one of the best channels for 
conveying instruction, for painting human life and manners, 
for showing the errors into which we are betrayed by our 
passions, for rendering virtue amiable and vice odious. The 
effect of well-contrived stories, towards accomplishing these 
purposes, is stronger than any effect that can be produced by 
simple and naked instruction ; and hence we find, that the wisest 
men in all ages have more or less employed fables and fictions, 
as the vehicles of knowledge. These have ever been the basis 
of both Epic and Dramatic Poetry. It is not, therefore, the 
nature of this sort of Writing, considered in itself, but the 
faulty manner of its execution, that can expose it to any con- 
tempt. Lord Bacon takes notice of our taste for Fictitious 
History, as a proof of the greatness and dignity of the human 
mind. He observes very ingeniously, that the objects of this 
world, and the common train of affairs which we behold going 
on in it, do not fill the mind, nor give it entire satisfaction. We 
seek for something that shall expand the mind in a greater 
degree: we seek for more heroic and illustrious deeds, for 
more diversified and surprising events, for a more splendid 
order of things, a more regular and just distribution of rewards 
and punishments than what we find here : because we meet n<*t 
with these in true history, we have recourse to fictitious. We 
create worlds according to our fancy, in order to gratify our 
capacious desires : " Accommodando," says that great Philoso- 
pher, (C rerum simulachra ad animi desideria, non submittendo 
animum rebus, quod ratio facit, et historia."* Let us then, 
since the subject wants neither dignity nor use, make a few ob- 
servations on the rise and progress of Fictitious History, and the 
different forms it has assumed in different countries. 

In all countries we find its origin very ancient. The genius 
of the Eastern nations, in particular, was from the earliest 
times much turned towards invention and the love of fiction. 
Their Divinity, their Philosophy, and their Politics, were clothed 
in fables and parables. The Indians, the Persians, and Ara- 
bians, were all famous for their tales. The " Arabian Nights' 
Entertainments" are the production of a romantic invention, 
but of a rich and amusing imagination ; exhibiting a singular 
and curious display of manners and characters, and beau- 
tified with a very humane morality. Among the ancient 
Greeks, we hear of the Ionian and Milesian Tales ; but they 
have now perished; and, from any account that we have of 
them, appear to have been of the loose and wanton kind. 
•Some Fictitious Histories yet remain, that were composed 
during the decline of the Roman Empire, by Apuleius, Achilles 

* '* Accommodating the appearances of things to the desires of the mind, not bring- 
ing down the mind, as history and philosophy do, to the course of events." 



LECT. XXXVII.] FICTITIOUS HISTORY. 443 

Tatius, and Heliodorus bishop of Trica, in the fourth century ; 
lut none of them are considerable enough to merit particular 
-criticisms. 

During the dark ages, this sort of writing assumed a new and 
very singular form, and for a long while made a great figure in 
the world. The martial spirit of those nations among whom the 
feudal government prevailed ; the establishment of single combat, 
as an allowed method of deciding causes both of justice and 
honour; the appointment of champions in the cause of women, 
who could not maintain their own rights by the sword ; together 
with the institution of military tournaments, in which different 
kingdoms vied with one another, gave rise, in those times, to that 
marvellous system of chivalry, which is one of the most singular 
appearances in the history of mankind. Upon this were founded 
those romances of knight-errantry, which carried an ideal chivalry 
to a still more extravagant height than it had risen in fact. There 
was displayed in them a new and very wonderful sort of world, 
hardly bearing any resemblance to the world in which we dwell. 
Not only knights setting forth to redress all manner of wrongs, 
but in every page, magicians, dragons, and giants, invulnerable 
men, winged horses, enchanted armour, and enchanted castles ; 
adventures absolutely incredible, yet suited to the gross igno- 
rance of these ages, and to the legends, and superstitious notions 
concerning magic and necromancy, which then prevailed. This 
merit they had, of being writings of the highly moral and heroic 
kind. Their knights were patterns, not of courage merely, but 
of religion, generosity, courtesy, and fidelity ; and the heroines 
were no less distinguished for modesty, delicacy, and the utmost 
dignity of manners. 

These were the first Compositions that received the name of 
Romances. The origin of this name is traced, by Mr. Huet, the 
learned bishop of Avranche, to the Provencal Troubadoures, a 
sort of story-tellers and bards in the county of Provence, where 
there subsisted some remains of literature and poetry. The lan- 
guage which prevailed in that country was a mixture of Latin 
and Gallic, called the Roman or Romance Language ; and, as 
the stories of those Troubadoures were written in that language, 
hence it is said the name of Romance, which we now apply to all 
fictitious Composition. 

The earliest of these Romances is that which goes under the 
name of Turpin, the Archbishop of Rheims, written in the 11th 
century. The subject is, the Achievements of Charlemagne and 
his Peers, or Paladins, in driving the Saracens out of France and 
part of Spain; the same subject which Ariosto has taken for his 
celebrated poem of Orlando Furioso, which is truly a Chivalry 
Romance, as extravagant as any of the rest, but partly heroic, 
and partly comic, embellished with the highest graces of poetry. 
The Romance of Turpin was followed by Amadis de Gaul, and 
many more of the same stamp. The Crusades both furnished 

H H 2 



444 FICTITIOUS HISTORY. [LECT. XXXVII. 

new matter, and increased the spirit for such Writings ; the 
Christians against the Saracens made the common ground-work 
of them ; and from the 11th to the 16th century they continued 
to bewitch all Europe. In Spain, where the taste for this sort 
of writing had been most greedily caught, the ingenious Cervantes, 
in the beginning of the last century, contributed greatly to ex- 
plode it ; and the abolition of tournaments, the prohibition of 
single combat, the disbelief of magic and enchantments, and the 
change in general of manners throughout Europe, began to give 
a new turn to fictitious Composition. 

Then appeared the Astraea of D'urfe, the Grand Cyrus, the 
Clelia and Cleopatra of Mad. Scuderi, the Arcadia of Sir Philip 
Sidney, and other grave and stately Compositions in the same 
style. These may be considered as forming the second stage of 
Romance writing. The heroism and the gallantry, the moral 
and virtuous turn of the chivalry romance, were still preserved ; 
but the dragons, the necromancers, and the enchanted castles, 
were banished, and some small resemblance to human nature was 
introduced. Still, however, there was too much of the marvel- 
lous in them to please an age which now aspired to refinement. 
The characters were discerned to be strained ; the style to be 
swollen ; the adventures incredible ; the books themselves were 
voluminous and tedious. 

Hence, this sort of Composition soon assumed a third form, 
and from magnificent Heroic Romance, dwindled down to the 
Familiar Novel. These Novels, both in France and England, 
during the age of Lewis XIY. and King Charles II., were in 
general of a trifling nature, without the appearance of moral ten- 
dency, or useful instruction. Since that time, however, some- 
what better has been attempted, and a degree of reformation 
introduced into the spirit of Novel Writing. Imitations of life 
and character have been made their principal object. Relations 
have been professed to be given of the behaviour of persons in 
particular interesting situations, such as may actually occur 
in life : by means of which, what is laudable or defective in 
character and conduct, may be pointed out, and placed in an 
useful light. Upon this plan, the French have produced some 
compositions of considerable merit. Gil Bias, by Le Sage, is a 
book full of good sense, and instructive knowledge of the world. 
The works of Marivaux, especially his Marianne, discover great 
refinement of thought, great penetration into human nature, and 
paint with a very delicate pencil, some of the nicest shades and 
features in the distinction of characters. The Nouvelle Heloise 
of Rousseau is a production of a very singular kind ; in many of 
the events which are related, improbable and unnatural ; in some 
of the details tedious, and for some of the scenes which are 
described justly blameable ; but withal, for the power of elo- 
quence, for tenderness of sentiment, for ardour of passion, entitled 
to rank among the highest, productions of Fictitious History. 



LECT. XXXVII.] FICTITIOUS HISTORY. 445 

In this kind of Writing we are, it must be confessed, in Great 
Britain, inferior to the French. We neither relate so agreeably, 
nor draw characters with so much delicacy ; yet we are not 
without some performances which discover the strength of the 
British genius. No fiction, in any language, was ever better 
supported than the Adventures of Robinson Crusoe. While it 
is carried on with that appearance of truth and simplicity, which 
takes a strong held of the imagination of all Readers, it suggests, 
at the same time, very useful instruction; by showing how 
much the native powers of man may be exerted for surmounting 
the difficulties of any external Situation. Mr. Fielding's Novels 
are highly distinguished for their humour ; a humour which, if 
not of the most refined and delicate kind, is original, and peculiar 
to himself. The characters which he draws are lively and na- 
tural, and marked with the strokes of a bold pencil. The gen- 
eral scope of his stories is favourable to humanity and goodness 
of heart ; and in Tom Jones, his greatest work, the artful con- 
duct of the fable, and the subserviency of all the incidents to the 
winding up of the whole, deserve much praise. The most moral 
of all our Novel Writers is Richardson, the Author of Clarissa, 
a writer of excellent intentions, and of very considerable capacity 
and genius ; did he not possess the unfortunate talent of spinning 
out pieces of amusement into an immeasurable length. The 
trivial performances which daily appear in public under the title 
of Lives, Adventures, and Histories, by anonymous Authors, if 
they be often innocent, yet are most commonly insipid ; and 
though in the general it ought to be admitted that Characteris- 
tical Novels, formed upon Nature and upon Life, without extra- 
vagance, and without licentiousness, might furnish an agreeable 
and useful entertainment to the mind ; yet considering the 
manner in which these Writings have been, for the most part 
conducted, it must also be confessed, that they oftener tend to 
dissipation and idleness, than to any good purpose. Let us now, 
therefore, make our retreat from these regions of fiction. 



446 NATURE OF POETRY. [LECT. XXXVIII. 



LECTUEE XXXVIII. 

NATURE OF POETRY ITS ORIGIN AND PROGRESS 

VERSIFICATION. 

I have now finished my observations on the different kinds of 
Writing in Prose. What remains is, to treat of Poetical Com- 
position. Before entering on the consideration of any of its 
particular kinds, I design this Lecture as an Introduction to the 
subject of Poetry in general ; wherein I shall treat of its nature, 
give an account of its origin, and make some observations on 
Versification, or Poetical Numbers. 

Our first inquiry must be, what is Poetry ? and wherein does 
it differ from Prose ? The answer to this question is not so easy 
as might at first be imagined ; and Critics have differed and dis- 
puted much concerning the proper definition of Poetry. Some 
have made its essence to consist in fiction, and support their 
opinion by the authority of Aristotle and Plato. But this is 
certainly too limited a definition ; for though fiction may have a 
great share in many Poetical Compositions, yet many subjects of 
Poetry may not be feigned ; as, where the Poet describes objects 
which actually exist, or pours forth the real sentiments of his own 
heart. Others have made the characteristic of Poetry to lie in 
imitation. But this is altogether loose ; for several other arts 
imitate as well as Poetry ; and an imitation of human manners 
and characters, may be carried on in the humblest Prose, no less 
than in the more lofty Poetic strain. 

The most just and comprehensive definition which, I think, 
can be given of Poetry, is, " that it is the language of passion, 
or of enlivened imagination, formed, most commonly, into 
regular numbers." The Historian, the Orator, the Philosopher, 
address themselves, for the most part, primarily to the under- 
standing : their direct aim is to inform, to persuade, or to 
instruct. But the primary aim of a Poet is to please, and to 
move ; and, therefore, it is to the Imagination, and the Passions, 
that he speaks. He may, and he ought to have it in his view, 
to instruct and to reform ; but it is indirectly, and by pleasing 
and moving, that he accomplishes this end. His mind is sup- 
posed to be animated by some interesting object which fires his 
Imagination, or engages his Passions; and which, of course, 
communicates to his Style a peculiar elevation suited to his 
ideas ; very different from that mode of expression, which is 
natural to the mind in its calm, ordinary state. I have added to 
my definition, that this language of Passion, or Imagination, is 
formed, most commonly, into regular numbers ,* because, though 



LECT. XXXVIII.] NATURE OF POETRY. 447 

regular Versification be, in general, the exterior distinction of 
Poetry, yet there are some forms of Verse so loose and familiar, 
as to be hardly distinguishable from Prose ; such as the Verse of 
Terence's Comedies; and there is also a species of Prose, so 
measured in its cadence, and so much raised in its tone, as to 
approach very near to Poetical Numbers; such as the Tele- 
machus of Fenelon; and the English Translation of Ossian. 
The truth is, Verse and Prose, on some occasions, run into one 
another, like light and shade. It is hardly possible to deter- 
mine the exact limit where Eloquence ends, and Poetry begins ; 
nor is there any occasion for being very precise about the boun- 
daries, as long as the nature of each is understood. These are 
the minutiae of Criticism, concerning which frivolous Writers 
are always disposed to squabble; but which deserve not any 
particular discussion. The truth and justness of the definition, 
which I have given of Poetry, will appear more fully from the 
account which I am now to give of its origin, and which will 
tend to throw light on much of what I am afterwards to deliver, 
concerning its various kinds. 

The Greeks, ever fond of attributing to their own nation the 
invention of all sciences and arts, have ascribed the origin of 
Poetry to Orpheus, Linus, and Musaeus. There were, perhaps, 
such persons as these, who were the first distinguished bards in 
the Grecian countries. But long before such names were heard 
of, and among nations where they were never known, Poetry 
existed. It is a great error to imagine, that Poetry and Music 
are Arts which belong only to polished nations. They have 
their foundation in the nature of man, and belong to all nations, 
and to all ages ; though, like other arts founded in nature, they 
have been more cultivated, and, from a concurrence of favourable 
circumstances, carried to greater perfection in some countries, 
than in others. In order to explore the rise of Poetry, we must 
have recourse to the deserts and the wilds ; we must go back to 
the age of hunters and of shepherds ; to the highest antiquity ; 
and to the simplest form of manners among mankind. 

It has been often said, and the concurring voice of all anti- 
quity affirms, that Poetry is older than Prose. But in what 
sense this seemingly strange Paradox holds true, has not always 
beenVell understood. There never, certainly, was any period of 
society in which men conversed together in Poetical numbers. 
It was in very humble and scanty Prose, as we may easily 
believe, that the first tribes carried on intercourse among them- 
selves, relating to the wants and necessities of life. But from 
the very beginning of Society, there were occasions on which 
they met together for feasts, sacrifices, and public assemblies ; and 
on all such occasions, it is well known, that music, song, and 
dance, made their principal entertainment. It is chiefly in 
America, that we have had the opportunity of being made 
acquainted with men in their savage state. We learn from the 



448 ORIGIN AND PROGRESS [LECT. XXXVIII. 

particular and concurring accounts of Travellers, that, among all 
the nations of that vast continent, especially among the Northern 
Tribes, with whom we have had most intercourse, music and 
song are, at all their meetings, carried on with an incredible 
degree of enthusiasm ; that the chiefs of the Tribe are those who 
signalize themselves most on such occasions ; that it is in songs 
they celebrate their religious rites ; that, by these, they lament 
their public and private calamities, the death of friends, or the 
loss of warriors ; express their joy on their victories ; celebrate 
the great actions of their nation, and their heroes ; excite each 
other to perform great exploits in war, or to suffer death and 
torments with unshaken constancy. 

Here, then, we see the first beginnings of Poetic Composition, 
in those rude effusions, which the enthusiasm of fancy or passion 
suggested to untaught men, when roused by interesting events, 
and by their meeting together in public assemblies. Two par- 
ticulars would early distinguish this language of song, from that 
a in which they conversed on the common occurrences of life ; 
namely, an unusual arrangement of words, and the employment 

v ^ of bold figures of speech. It would invert words, or change 
them from that order in which they are commonly placed, to that 
which most suited the train in which they rose in the Speaker's 
imagination ; or which was most accommodated to the cadence of 
the passion by which he was moved. Under the influence too 
of any strong emotion, objects do not appear to us such as they 
really are, but such as passion makes us see them. We magnify 
and exaggerate ; we seek to interest all others in what causes 
our emotion ; we compare the least things to the greatest ; we call 
upon the absent as well as the present, and even address our- 
selves to things inanimate. Hence, in congruity with those 
various movements of the mind, arise those turns of expression, 
which we now distinguish, by the learned names of Hyperbole, 
Prosopopoeia, Simile, &c., but which are no other than the 
native original language of Poetry among the most barbarous 
nations. 

J^ Man is both a Poet, and a Musician, by nature. The same 
i impulse which prompted the enthusiastic Poetic Style, prompted 
a certain melody, or modulation of sound, suited to the emotions 
of Joy or Grief, of Admiration, Love, or Anger. There is a 
power in sound, which, partly from nature, partly from habit 
and association, makes such pathetic impressions on the fancy, as 
delight even the most wild barbarians. Music and Poetry, 
therefore, had the same rise ; they were prompted by the same 
occasions ; they were united in song ; and, as long as they con- 
tinued united, they tended, without doubt, mutually to heighten 
and exalt each other's power. The first Poets sung their own 
Verses : and hence the beginning of what we call Versification, 
or words arranged in a more artful order than Prose, so as to be 
suited to some tune or melody. The liberty of transposition, or 



LECT. XXXVIII.] , OF POETRY. 449 

inversion, which the Poetic Style, as I observed, would naturally 
assume, made it easier to form the words into some sort of 
numbers that fell in with the Music of the Song. Very harsh 
and uncouth, we may easily believe, these numbers would be at 
first. But the pleasure was felt ; it was studied ; and Versifica- 
tion, by degrees, passed into an Art. 

It appears from what has been said, that the first Compo- 
sitions which were either recorded by Writing or transmitted by 
Tradition, could be no other than Poetical Compositions. No 
other but these, could draw the attention of men in their rude 
uncivilized state. Indeed they knew no other. Cool reasoning 
and plain discourse had no power to attract savage Tribes, 
addicted only to hunting and war. There was nothing that 
could either rouse the Speaker to pour himself forth, or draw 
the crowd to listen, but the high powers of Passion, of Music, 
and of Song. This vehicle, therefore, and no other, could be 
employed by Chiefs and Legislators, when they meant to instruct 
or to animate their tribes. There is, likewise, a farther reason 
why such Compositions only could be transmitted to posterity ; 
because, before Writing was invented, Songs only could last, 
and be remembered. The ear gave assistance to the memory, 
by the help of Numbers; fathers repeated and sung them to 
their children ; and by this oral tradition of national Ballads, 
were conveyed all the historical knowledge, and all the instruc- 
tion, of the first ages. 

The earliest accounts which History gives us concerning all 
nations, bear testimony to these facts. In the first ages of 
Greece, Priests, Philosophers, and Statesmen, all delivered their 
instructions in Poetry. Apollo, Orpheus, and Amphion, their 
most ancient Bards, are represented as the first tamers of man- 
kind, the first founders of law and civilisation. Minos and 
Thales sung to the Lyre the laws which they composed ; * and 
till the age immediately preceding that of Herodotus, History 
had appeared in no other form than that of Poetical Tales. 

In the same manner, among all other nations, Poets and 
Songs are the first objects that make their appearance. Among 
the Scythian or Gothic nations, many of their kings and leaders 
were Scalders, or Poets ; and it is from their Runic Songs, that 
the most early Writers of their History, such as Saxo-Gram- 
maticus, acknowledge, that they had derived their chief infor- 
mation. Among the Celtic Tribes, in Gaul, Britain, and 
Ireland, we know, in what admiration their Bards were held, 
and what great influence they possessed over the people. They 
were both Poets and Musicians, as all the first Poets, in every 
country, were. They were always near the person of the chief 
or sovereign ; they recorded all his great exploits ; they were 
employed as the ambassadors between contending tribes, and 
their persons were held sacred. 

* Slrabo, lib. 10. 



450 ORIGIN AND PROGRESS [LECT. XXXVIII. 

From this deduction it follows, that as we have reason to 
look for Poems and Songs among the Antiquities of all countries, 
so we may expect, that in the strain of these there will 
be a remarkable resemblance, during the primitive periods of 
every country. The occasions of their being composed, are 
every where nearly the same. The praises of Gods and Heroes, 
the celebration of famed ancestors, the recital of martial deeds, 
songs of victory, and songs of lamentation over the misfortunes 
and death of their countrymen, occur among all nations; and 
the same enthusiasm and fire, the same wild and irregular, but 
animated Composition, concise and glowing Style, bold and 
extravagant Figures of Speech, are the general distinguishing 
characters of all the most ancient original Poetry. That strong 
hyperbolical manner which we have been long accustomed to 
call the Oriental manner of Poetry, (because some of the earliest 
poetical productions came to us from the East), is in truth no 
more Oriental than Occidental ; it is characteristical of an age 
rather than of a country, and belongs, in some measure, to all 
nations at that period which first gives rise to Music and to 
Song. Mankind never resemble each other, so much as they do 
in the beginnings of society. Its subsequent revolutions give 
birth to the principal distinctions of character among nations, 
fS and divert into channels widely separated, that current of human 
genius and manners, which descends originally from one spring. 

Diversity of climate and of manner of living, will, however, 
occasion some diversity in the strain of the first Poetry of nations ; 
chiefly, according as those nations are of a more ferocious, or of 
a more gentle spirit ; and according as they advance faster or 
slower in the arts of civilization. Thus we find all the remains 
of the ancient Gothic Poetry remarkably fierce, and breathing 
nothing but slaughter and blood ; while the Peruvian and the 
Chinese Songs turned, from the earliest times, upon milder sub- 
jects. The Celtic Poetry, in the days of Ossian, though chiefly 
of the martial kind, yet had attained a considerable mixture of 
tenderness and refinement ; in consequence of the long cultiva- 
tion of Poetry among the Celtas, by means of a series and suc- 
cession of Bards which had been established for ages. So Lucan 
informs us : 

Vos quoque qui fortes animos, belloque peremptos 

Laudibus in longum vates diffunditis aevum 

Plurima securi fudistis carmina Bardi.* [Lib. 44.] 

Among the Grecian nations, their early Poetry appears to 
have soon received a philosophical cast, from what we are in- 

* You too, ye Bards, whom sacred raptures fire, 
To chaunt your heroes to your country's lyre, 
Who consecrate in your immortal strain, 
Brave patriot souls in righteous battle slain ; 
Securely now the useful task renew, 
And noblest themes in deathless songs pursue. Rowe. 



LECT. XXXVIII.] OF POETRY. 451 

formed concerning the subjects of Orpheus, Linus, and Musseus, 
who treated of Creation and of Chaos, of the Generation of the 
World, and of the Rise of Things ; and we know that the Greeks 
advanced sooner to philosophy, and proceeded with a quicker pace 
in all the arts of refinement than most other nations. 

The Arabians and the Persians have always been the greatest 
Poets of the East, and among them, as among other nations, 
Poetry was the earliest vehicle of all their learning and instruc- 
tion.* The ancient Arabs, we are informed,! valued themselves 
much on their metrical Compositions, which were of two sorts ; 
the one they compared to loose pearls, and the other to pearls 
strung. In the former the sentences or verses were without 
connexion, and their beauty arose from the elegance of the 
expression, and the acuteness of the sentiment. The moral 
doctrines of the Persians were generally comprehended in such 
independent proverbial apophthegms, formed into verse. In this 
respect they bear a considerable resemblance to the Proverbs of 
Solomon ; a great part of which book consists of unconnected 
Poetry, like the loose pearls of the Arabians. The same form 
of Composition appears also in the book of Job. The Greeks 
seem to have been the first who introduced a more regular 
structure, and closer connection of parts, into their Poetical 
Writings. 

During the infancy of Poetry all the different kinds of it lay 
confused, and were mingled in the same Composition, according 
as inclination, enthusiasm, or casual incidents, directed the Poet's 
strain. In the Progress of Society and Arts, they began to 
assume those different regular forms, and to be distinguished by 
those different names, under which we now know them. But 
in the first rude state of Poetical Effusions, Ave can easily discern 
the seeds and beginnings of all ^ the kinds of regular Poetry. 
Odes and Hymns of every sort, would naturally be among the 
first Compositions ; according as the Bards were moved by reli- 
gious feelings, by exultation, resentment, love, or any other 
warm sentiment, to pour themselves forth in Song. Plaintive 
or Elegiac Poetry, would as naturally arise from lamentations 
over their deceased friends. The recital of the achievements of 
their heroes, and their ancestors, gave birth to what we now call 
Epic Poetry ; and as not content with simply reciting these, 
they would infallibly be led, at some of their public meetings, to 
represent them, by introducing different Bards speaking in the 
character of their heroes, and answering each other, we find in 
this the first outlines of Tragedy, or Dramatic Writing. 

None of these kinds of Poetry, however, were, in the first 
ages of Society, properly distinguished or separated, as they are 
now, from each other, Indeed, not only were the different kinds 



* Vid. Voyages de Chardin, chap, de la Poesie des Persans. 
t Vid. Preliminary Discourse to Sale's Translation of the Koran. 



452 PROGRESS OF POETRY. [LECT. XXXVIII. 

of Poetry then mixed together, but all that we now call Letters, 
or Composition of any kind, was then blended in one mass. At 
first, History, Eloquence, and Poetry were all the same. Who- 
ever wanted to move or to persuade, to inform or to entertain 
his countrymen and neighbours, whatever was the subject, ac- 
companied his sentiment and tales with the melody of Song. 
This was the case in that period of Society, when the character 
and occupations of the husbandman and the builder, the warrior 
and the statesman, were united in one person. When the 
progress of Society brought on a separation of the different Arts 
and Professions of Civil Life, it led also by degrees to a separa- 
tion of the different literary provinces from each other. 

The Art of Writing was in process of time invented ; records 
of past transactions began to be kept ; men, occupied with the 
subjects of policy and useful arts, wished now to be instructed 
and informed, as well as moved. They reasoned and reflected 
upon the affairs of life ; and were interested by what was real, 
not fabulous, in past transactions. The Historian, therefore, 
now laid aside the buskins of Poetry ; he wrote in Prose, and 
attempted to give a faithful and judicious relation of former 
events. The Philosopher addressed himself chiefly to the 
understanding. The Orator studied to persuade by reasoning, 
and retained more or less of the ancient passionate and glowing 
Style, according as it was conducive to his purpose. Poetry 
became now a separate art, calculated chiefly to please, and 
confined generally to such subjects as related to the imagination 
and passions. Even its earliest companion, Music, was in a 
great measure divided from it. 

These separations brought all the literary arts into a more 
regular form, and contributed to the exact and accurate culti- 
vation of each. Poetry, however, in its ancient original condi- 
tion, was, perhaps, more vigorous than it is in its modern state. 
It included, then, the whole burst of the human mind ; the 
whole exertion of its imaginative faculties. It spoke then the 
language of passion, and no other ; for to passion it owed its 
birth. Prompted and inspired by objects which to him seemed 
great, by events which interested his country or his friends, the 
early Bard arose and sung. He sung, indeed, in wild and dis- 
orderly strains ; but they were the native effusions of his heart ; 
they were the ardent conceptions of admiration or resentment, of 
sorrow or friendship, which he poured forth. It is no wonder, 
therefore, that in the rude and artless strain of the first Poetry 
of all nations, we should often find somewhat that captivates and 
transports the mind. In after ages, when Poetry became a 
regular art, studied for reputation and for gain, Authors began 
to affect what they did not feel. Composing coolly in their 
closets, they endeavoured to imitate passion, rather than to 
express it ; they tried to force their imagination into raptures, 
or to supply the defect of native warmth, by those artificial 



LECT. XXXVIII.] VERSIFICATION. 453 

ornaments which might give Composition a splendid appear- 
ance. 

The separation of Music from Poetry, produced consequences 
not favourable in some respects to Poetry, and in many respects 
hurtful to Music* As long as they remained united, Music 
enlivened and animated Poetry, and Poetry gave force and ex- 
pression to musical sound. The Music of that early period was, 
beyond doubt, extremely simple; and must have consisted chiefly 
of such pathetic notes, as the voice could adapt to the words of 
the Song. Musical instruments, such as flutes, and pipes, and a 
lyre with a very few strings, appear to have been early invented 
among some nations ; but no more was intended by these instru- 
ments, than simply to accompany the voice, and to heighten the 
melody of Song. The Poet's strain was always heard ; and, 
from many circumstances, it appears, that among the ancient 
Greeks, as well as among other nations, the Bard sung his 
verses, and played upon his harp or lyre at the same time. In 
this state the art of music was, when it produced all those great 
effects of which we read so much in ancient history. And cer- 
tain it is, that from simple Music only, and from Music accom- 
panied with verse or Song, we are to look for strong expression 
and powerful influence over the human mind. When instru- 
mental Music came to be studied as a separate art, divested of 
the Poet's Song, and formed into the artificial and intricate 
combinations of harmony, it lost all its ancient power of inflaming 
the hearers with strong emotions ; and sunk into an art of mere 
amusement, among polished and luxurious nations. 

Still, however, Poetry preserves, in all countries, some remains 
of its first and original connexion with Music. By being uttered 
in Song, it was formed into numbers, or into an artificial arrange- 
ment of words and syllables, very different in different countries; 
but such as, to the inhabitants of each, seemed most melodious 
and agreeable in sound. Whence arises that great characteristic 
of Poetry which we now call Yerse; a subject which comes 
next to be treated of. 

It is a subject of a curious nature ; but as I am sensible, that 
were I to pursue it as far as my inclination leads, it would give 
rise to discussions, which the greater part of Readers would 
consider as minute, I shall confine myself to a few observations 
upon English Versification. 

Nations, whose language and pronunciation were of a musical 
kind, rested their Versification chiefly upon the quantities, that 
is, the length or shortness of their syllables. Others, who did 
not make the quantities of their syllables be so distinctly per- 
ceived in pronouncing them, rested the melody of their Verse 
upon the number of syllables it contained, upon the proper dis- 



* See Dr. Brown's Dissertation on the Rise, Union, and Separation of Poetry and 
Music. 



454 VEKSIFICATION. [LECT. XXXVIII. 

position of accents and pauses in it, and frequently upon that 
return of corresponding sounds, which we call Rhyme. The 
former was the case with the Greeks and Romans ; the latter is 
the case with us, and with most modern nations. Among the 
Greeks and Romans, every syllable, or the far greatest number 
at least, was known to have a fixed and determined quantity ; 
and their manner of pronouncing rendered this so sensible to the 
ear, that a long syllable was counted precisely equal in time 
to two short ones. Upon this principle, the number of syllables 
contained in their hexameter verse was allowed to vary. It may 
extend to 17 ; it can contain, when regular, no fewer than 
13: but the musical time was, notwithstanding, precisely 
the same in every hexameter verse, and was always equal to 
that of 12 long syllables. In order to ascertain the regular time 
of every verse, and the proper mixture and succession of long 
and short syllables which ought to compose it, were invented, 
what the Grammarians call Metrical Feet, Dactyles, Spondees, 
Iambus, &c. By these measures was tried the accuracy of 
Composition in every line, and whether it was so constructed 
as to complete its proper melody. It was requisite, for instance, 
that the hexameter verse should have the quantity of its syllables 
so disposed, that it could be scanned or measured by six metrical 
feet, which might be either Dactyles or Spondees (as the musical 
time of both these is the same), with this restriction only, 
that the fifth foot was regularly to be a Dactyle, and the 
last a Spondee.* 

The introduction of these feet into English Yerse, would be 
altogether out of place ; for the genius of our language cor- 
responds not in this respect to the Greek or Latin. I say not, 
that we have no regard to quantity, or to long and short in pro- 
nouncing. Many words we have, especially our words 
consisting of several syllables, where the quantity, or the long 

* Some writers imagine, that the feet in Latin Verse were intended to correspond 
to bars in Music, and to form musical intervals or distinctions, sensible to the ear 
in the pronunciation of the line. Had this been the case, every kind of Verse must 
have had a peculiar order of feet appropriated to it. But the common prosodies show, 
that there are several forms of Latin Verse which are capable of being measured indif- 
ferently, by a series of feet of very different kinds. For instance, what is called the 
Asclepedaean Verse (in which the first ode of Horace is written) may be scanned either 
by a Spondeus, two Choriambus's and a Pyrrichius ; or by a Spondeus, a Dactylus 
succeeded by Caesura and two Dactylus's. The common Pentameter, and some other 
forms of Verse, admit the like varieties ; and yet the melody of the Verse remains 
always the same, though it be scanned by different feet. This proves, that the metrical 
feet were not sensible in the pronunciation of the line, but were intended only to regu- 
late its construction ; or applied as measures, to try whether the succession of long and 
short syllables was such as suited the melody of the Verse : and as feet of different 
kinds could sometimes be applied for this purpose, hence it happened, that some 
forms of Verse were capable of being scanned in different ways. For measuring the 
hexameter line, no other feet were found so proper as Dactyles and Spondees, and 
therefore by these it is uniformly scanned. But no ear is sensible of the termination of 
each foot, in reading an hexameter line. From a misapprehension of this matter, I ap- 
prehend that confusion has sometimes arisen among Writers in treating of the prosody 
both of Latin and of English Verse. 



LECT. XXXVIII.] VERSIFICATION. 455 

and short syllables, are invariably fixed ; but great numbers we 
have also, where the quantity is left altogether loose. This 
is the case with a great part of our words consisting of two 
syllables, and with almost all our monosyllables. In general, 
the difference made between long and short syllables, in our 
manner of pronouncing them, is so very inconsiderable, and 
so much liberty is left us for making them either long or 
short at pleasure, that mere quantity is of very little effect 
in English Versification. The only perceptible difference 
among our syllables, arises from some of them being uttered 
with that stronger percussion of voice which we call Accent. 
This Accent does not always make the syllable longer, but gives 
it more force of sound only; and it is upon a certain order and 
succession of accented and unaccented syllables, infinitely more 
than upon their being long or short, that the melody of our 
Yerse depends. If we take any of Mr. Pope's lines, and in 
reciting them alter the quantity of the syllables, as far as our 
quantities are sensible, the Music of the Yerse will not 
be much injured : whereas, if we do not accent the syllables 
according as the verse dictates, its melody will be totally 
destroyed.* 

Our English Heroic Yerse is of what may be called an 
Iambic structure ; that is, composed of a succession nearly alter- 
nate of syllables, not short and long, but unaccented and 
accented. With regard to the place of these accents, how- 
ever, some liberty is admitted, for the sake of variety. Yery 
often, though not always, the line begins with an unaccented 
syllable ; and sometimes, in the course of it, two unaccented 
syllables follow each other. But in general, there are either 
five or four accented syllables in each line. The number of 
syllables is ten, unless where an Alexandrian Yerse is occasion- 
ally admitted. In Yerse s not Alexandrian, instances occur 
where the line appears to have more than the limited number. 
But in such instances I apprehend it will be found, that some 
of the liquid syllables are so slurred in pronouncing, as to bring 
the Yerse, with respect to its effect upon the ear, within the 
usual bounds. 

Another essential circumstance in the constitution of our 
Yerse, is the caesaral pause, which falls towards the middle 
of each line. Some pause of this kind, dictated' by the melody, 
is found in the Yerse of most nations. It is found, as might be 
shown, in the Latin hexameter. In the French Heroic Yerse, 

* See this well illustrated in Lord Monboddo's Treatise of the Origin and Progress of 
Language, vol. ii. under the head of the Prosody of Language. He shows that this is 
not only the constitution of our own Verse, but that by our manner of reading Latin 
Verse, we make its music nearly the same. For we certainly do not pronounce it 
according to the ancient quantities, so as to make the musical time of one long syllable 
equal to two short ones ; but according to a succession of accented and unaccented 
syllables, only mixed in a ratio different from that of our own Verse. No Roman 
could possibly understand our pronunciation. 



456 VERSIFICATION. [LECT. XXXVIII. 

it is very sensible. That is a Verse of twelve syllables, and in 
every line, just after the 6th syllable, there falls regularly and 
indispensably, a caesural pause, dividing the line into two equal 
hemistichs. For example, in the first lines of Boileau's Epistle 
to the King : 

Jeune & vaillant heros | dont la haute sagesse 
N'est point le fruit tardif | d'une lente vieillesse, 
Qui seul sans Ministre | a l'example des Dieux 
Soutiens tout par toi-meme | & vois tous par tes yeux. 

In this train all their Verses proceed ; the one half of the 
line always answering to the other, and ' the same chime 
returning incessantly on the ear without intermission or change ; 
which is certainly a defect in their Verse, and unfits it so very 
much for the freedom and dignity of Heroic Poetry. On the 
other hand, it is a distinguishing advantage of our English 
Verse, that it allows the pause to be varied through four dif- 
ferent syllables in the line. The pause may fall after the 4th, 
the 5th, the 6th, or the 7th syllable ; and according as the pause 
is placed after one or other of these syllables, the melody of 
the Verse is much changed, its air and cadence are diversified. 
By this means, uncommon richness and variety are added to 
English Versification. 

When the pause falls earliest, that is, after the 4th syllable, 
the briskest melody is thereby formed, and the most spirited air 
given to the line. In the following lines of the Rape of the 
Lock, Mr. Pope has with exquisite propriety suited the con- 
struction of the Verse to the subject : 

On her white breast | a sparkling cross she wore, 
Which Jews might kiss | and infidels adore j 
Her lively looks | a sprightly mind disclose, 
Quick as her eyes | and as unfixed as those, 
Favours to none | to all she smiles extends, 
Oft she rejects | but never once offends. 

When the pause falls after the 5th syllable, which divides the 
line into two equal portions, the melody is sensibly altered. 
The Verse loses that brisk and sprightly air, which it had 
with the former pause, and becomes more smooth, gentle, and 
flowing. 

Eternal sunshine | of the spotless mind, 

Each prayer accepted | and each wish resigned. 

When the pause proceeds to follow the 6th syllable, the 
tenor of the Music becomes solemn and grave. The Verse 
marches now with a more slow and measured pace, than in 
either of the two former cases. 

The wrath of Peleus' son | the direful spring 
Of all the Grecian woes, | goddess sing ! 



LECT. XXXVIII.] VERSIFICATION. 457 

But the grave solemn cadence becomes still more sensible, 
when the pause falls after the 7th syllable, which is the 
nearest place to the end of the line that it can occupy. This 
kind of Verse occurs the seldomest, but has a happy effect in 
diversifying the melody. It produces that slow Alexandrian 
air, which is finely suited to a close ; and for this reason, such 
lines almost never occur together, but are used in finishing 
the couplet. 

And in the smooth description j murmur still. 
Long loved adored ideas ! | all adieu. J 

I have taken my examples from Verses in rhyme ; because in 
these, our Versification is subjected to the strictest law. As 
Blank Verse is of a freer kind, and naturally is read with 
less cadence or tone, the pauses in it, and the effect of them, are 
not always so sensible to the ear. It is constructed, however, 
entirely upon the same principles, with respect to the place 
of the pause. There are some, who, in order to exalt the 
variety and the power of our Heroic Verse, have maintained 
that it admits of musical pauses, not only after those four 
syllables where I assigned their place, but after any one 
syllable in the Verse indifferently, where the sense directs it to 
be placed. This, in my opinion, is the same thing as to main- 
tain that there is no pause at all belonging to the natural melody 
of the Verse; since, according to this notion, the pause is 
formed entirely to the meaning, not by the music. But 
this I apprehend to be contrary both to the nature of Ver- 
sification, and to the experience of every good ear.* Those 
certainly are the happiest lines, wherein the pause prompted 
by the melody, coincides in some degree with that of the 
sense, or at least does not tend to spoil or interrupt the 
meaning. Wherever any opposition between the music and 
the sense chances to take place, I observed before, in treating 
of Pronunciation or Delivery, that the proper method of 
reading these lines, is to read them according as the sense 
dictates, neglecting or slurring the cassural pause, which renders 
the line less graceful indeed, but, however, does not entirely 
destroy its sound. 

Our Blank Verse possesses great advantages, and is, indeed, 
a noble, bold, and disencumbered species of Versification. The 

* In the Italian Heroic Verse employed by Tasso in his Gierusalemme, and Ariosto 
in his Orlando, the pauses are of the same varied nature with those which I have 
shown to belong to English Versification, and fall after the same four syllables in the 
line: Marmontel, in his Poetique Francoise, vol. i. p. 269, takes notice that this con- 
struction of Verse is common to the Italians and the English ; and defends the uni- 
formity of the French caesural pause upon this ground, that the alternation of mascu- 
line and feminine rhymes, furnishes sufficient variety to the French Poetry ; whereas 
the change of movement occasioned by the four different pauses in English and Italian 
Verse, produces, according to him, too great diversity. On the head of pauses in 
English Versification, see the Elements of Criticism, chap. 18, sect. 4. 

I I 



458 VERSIFICATION. [LECT. XXXVIII. 

principal defect in rhyme, is the full close which it forces upon 
the ear, at the end of every couplet. Blank Verse is freed from 
this, and allows the lines to run into each other with as great 
liberty as the Latin hexameter permits, perhaps with greater. 
Hence it is particularly suited to subjects of dignity and force, 
which demand more free and manly numbers than rhyme. The 
constraint and strict regularity of rhyme, are unfavourable to 
the sublime, or to the highly pathetic strain. An Epic Poem, 
or a Tragedy, would be fettered and degraded by it. It is best 
adapted to compositions of a temperate strain, where no par- 
ticular vehemence is required in the Sentiments, nor great 
Sublimity in the Style ; such as Pastorals, Elegies, Epistles, 
Satires, &c. To these it communicates that degree of elevation 
which is proper for them ; and without any other assistance 
sufficiently distinguishes the Style from Prose. He who should 
write such Poems in Blank Verse, would render his work harsh 
and unpleasing. In order to support a poetical Style, he would 
be obliged to affect a Pomp of language unsuitable to the 
subject. 

Tnough I join in opinion with those, who think that rhyme 
finds its proper place in the middle, but not in the higher regions 
of Poetry, I can by no means join in the invectives which some 
have poured out against it, as if it were a mere barbarous 
jingling of sounds, fit only for children, and owing to nothing 
but the corruption of taste in the monkish ages. Rhyme might 
indeed be barbarous in Latin or Greek Verse, because these 
languages by the sonorousness of their words, by their liberty 
of transposition and inversion, by their fixed quantities and 
musical pronunciation, could carry on the melody of Verse 
without its aid. But it does not follow, that therefore it must 
be barbarous in the English language, which is destitute of these 
advantages. Every language has powers and graces, and music 
peculiar to itself; and what is becoming in one, would be 
ridiculous in another. Rhyme was barbarous in Latin ; and an 
attempt to construct English Verses after the form of hexameters, 
and pentameters, and Sapphics, is as barbarous among us. It is 
not true, that rhyme is merely a monkish invention. On the 
contrary, it has obtained under different forms, in the Versifica- 
tion of most known nations. It is found in the ancient poetry 
of the Northern nations of Europe; it is said to be found 
among the Arabs, the Persians, the Indians, and the Americans. 
This shows that there is something in the return of similar 
sounds, which is grateful to the ears of most part of mankind. 
And if any one after reading Mr. Pope's Rape of the Lock, or 
Eloisa to Abelard, shall not admit our rhyme, with all its 
varieties of pauses, to carry both elegance, and sweetness of 
sound, his ear must be pronounced to be of a very peculiar kind. 

The present form of our English Heroic rhyme in couplets, 
is a modern species of Versification. The measure generally 



LECT. XXXIX.] PASTOEAL POETRY. 459 

used in the days of Queen Elizabeth, King James, and King 
Charles I. was the stanza of eight lines, such as Spenser em- 
ploys, borrowed from the Italian ; a measure very constrained 
and artificial. Waller was the first who brought couplets into 
vogue ; and Dryden afterwards established the usage. Waller 
first smoothed our Verse; Dryden perfected it. Mr. Pope's 
Versification has a peculiar character ; it is flowing and smooth 
in the highest degree ; far more laboured and correct than that 
of any who went before him. He introduced one considerable 
change into Heroic Verse, by totally throwing aside the triplets, 
or three lines rhyming together, in which Mr. Dryden abounded. 
Dryden's Versification, however, has very great merit ; and, like 
all his productions, has much spirit, mixed with carelessness. If 
not so smooth and correct as Pope's, it is, however, more varied 
and easy. He subjects himself less to the rule of closing the 
sense with the couplet; and frequently takes the liberty of 
making his couplets run into one another, with somewhat of the 
freedom of Blank Verse. 



LECTUKE XXXIX. 

PASTORAL POETRY— LYRIC POETRY. 

In the last Lecture, I gave an account of the Rise and 
Progress of Poetry, and made some observations on the nature 
of English Versification. I now proceed to treat of the chief 
kinds of Poetical Composition, and of the critical rules that 
relate to them. I shall follow that order which is most simple 
and natural, beginning with the lesser forms of Poetry, and 
ascending from them to the Epic and Dramatic, as the most 
dignified. This Lecture shall be employed on Pastoral and 
Lyric Poetry. 

plough I begin with the consideration of Pastoral Poetry, 
it is not because I consider it as one of the earliest forms of 
Poetical Composition. On the contrary, I am of opinion that 
it was not cultivated as a distinct species, or subject of Writing, 
until society had advanced in refinement. Most Authors have 
indeed indulged the fancy, that because the life which mankind 
at first led was rural, therefore their first Poetry was Pastoral, 
or employed in the celebration of rural scenes and objects. I 
make no doubt, that it would borrow many of its images and 
allusions from those natural objects with which men were best 
acquainted; but I am persuaded that the calm and tranquil 
scenes of rural felicity were not, by any means, the first objects 
which inspired that strain of Composition which we now call 
Poetry. It was inspired, in the first periods of every nation, 

I I 2 



460 PASTORAL POETRY. [LECT. XXXIX. 

by events and objects which roused men's passions ; or, at least, 
awakened their wonder and admiration. The actions of their 
Gods and Heroes, their own exploits in war, the successes or 
misfortunes of their countrymen and friends, furnished the first 
Themes to the Bards of every country. What was of a Pastoral 
kind in their Compositions, was incidental only. They did not 
think of choosing for their Theme the tranquillity and the plea- 
sures of the country, as long as these were daily and familiar 
objects to them. It was not till men had begun to be assembled 
in great cities, after the distinctions of rank and station were 
formed, and the bustle of Courts and large Societies was 
known, that Pastoral Poetry assumed its present form. Men 
then began to look back upon the more simple and innocent life 
which their forefathers led, or which, at least, they fancied them 
to have led ; they looked back upon it with pleasure ; and in 
those rural scenes, and pastoral occupations, imagining a degree 
of felicity to take place superior to what they now enjoyed, 
conceived the idea of celebrating it in Poetry. It was in the 
court of King Ptolemy that Theocritus wrote the first Pastorals 
with which we are acquainted ; and in the court of Augustus he 
was imitated by Virgil. 

But whatever may have been the orgin of Pastoral Poetry, it 
is, undoubtedly, a natural and very agreeable form of Poetical 
Composition. It recalls to our imagination those gay scenes, 
and pleasing views of nature, which commonly are the delight 
of our childhood and youth ; and to which, in more advanced 
years, the greatest part of men recur with pleasure. It exhibits 
to us a life with which we are accustomed to associate the ideas 
of peace, of leisure, and of innocence ; and therefore we readily 
set open our hearts to such representations as promise to banish 
from our thoughts the cares of the world, and to transport us 
into calm Elysian regions. At the same time, no subject seems 
to be more favourable to Poetry. Amidst rural objects, nature 
presents, on all hands, the finest field for description ; and 
nothing appears to flow more, of its own accord, into Poetical 
Numbers, than rivers and mountains, meadows and hills, flocks 
and trees, and shepherds void of care. Hence this sp?cies 
of Poetry has, at all times, allured many Readers, and excited 
many Writers. But, notwithstanding the advantages it possesses, 
it will appear, from what I have farther to observe upon it, that 
there is hardly any species of Poetry which is more difficult to 
be carried to perfection, or in which fewer Writers have excelled, 

Pastoral life may be considered in three different views ; 
either such as it now actually is ; when the state of shepherds 
is reduced to be a mean, servile, and laborious state ; when 
their employments are become disagreeable, and their ideas gross 
and low ; or such as we may suppose it once to have been, in 
the more early and simple ages, when it was a life of ease and 
abundance ; when the wealth of men consisted chiefly in flocks 



LECT. XXXIX.] PASTORAL POETRY. 461 

and herds, and the shepherd, though unrefined in his manners, 
was respectable in his state ; or, lastly, such as it never was, and 
never can in reality be, when, to the ease, innocence, and sim- 
plicity of the early ages, we attempt to add the polished taste 
and cultivated manners of modern times ; of these three states, 
the first is too gross and mean, the last too refined and unnatural, 
to be made the ground-work of Pastoral Poetry. Either of 
these extremes is a rock upon which the Poet will split, if he 
approach too near it. We shall be disgusted if he give us too 
much of the servile employments and low ideas of actual pea- 
sants, as Theocritus is censured for having sometimes done ; and 
if, like some of the French and Italian Writers of Pastorals, he 
makes his Shepherds discourse as if they were courtiers and 
scholars, he then retains the name only, but wants the spirit of 
Pastoral Poetry. 

He must, therefore, keep in the middle station between these. 
He must form to himself the idea of a rural state, such as in 
certain periods of Society may have actually taken place, where 
there was ease, equality, and innocence ; where Shepherds were 
gay and agreeable, without being learned or refined ; and plain 
and artless, without being gross and wretched. The great charm 
of Pastoral Poetry arises from the view which it exhibits of the 
tranquillity and happiness of a rural life. This pleasing illusion, 
therefore, the Poet must carefully maintain. He must display 
to us all that is agreeable in that state, but hide whatever is 
displeasing.* Let him paint its simplicity and innocence to the 
full, but cover its rudeness and misery. Distresses, indeed, and 
anxieties, he may attribute to it ; for it would be perfectly un- 
natural to suppose any condition of human life to be without 
them ; but they must be of such a nature as not to shock the 
fancy with any thing peculiarly disgusting in the Pastoral life. 

* In the following beautiful lines of the first Eclogue, Virgil has, in the true spirit of 
a Pastoral Poet, brought together as agreeable an assemblage of images of rural pleasure 
as can any where be found : 

Fortunate senex ! hie inter flumina nota, 
Et fontes sacros, frigus captabis opacum. 
Hinc tibi, quae semper vicino ab limite sepes 
Hyblaeis apibus florem depasta salicti, 
Saepe levi somnum suadebit inire susurro. 
Hinc alta sub rupe canet frondator ad auras ; 
Nee tamen interea raucse, tua cura, palumbes, 
Nee gemere aeria cessabit turtur ab ulmo. 

Happy old man ! here mid th' accustomed streams 
And sacred springs you'll shun the scorching beams ; 
While from yon willow fence, thy pasture's bound, 
The bees that suck their flowery stores around, 
Shall sweetly mingle with the whispering boughs, 
Their lulling murmurs, and invite repose. 
While from steep rocks the pruner's song is heard ; 
Nor the soft cooing dove, thy favourite bird, 
Meanwhile shall cease to breathe her melting'strain, 
Nor turtles from th' aerial elms to plain. Warton. 



462 PASTORAL POETRY. [LECT. XXXIX. 

The Shepherd may well be afflicted for the displeasure of his 
mistress, or for the loss of a favourite lamb. It is a sufficient 
recommendation of any state, to have only such evils as these to 
deplore. In short, it is the Pastoral life somewhat embellished 
and beautified, at least seen on its fairest side only, that the 
Poet ought to present to us. But let him take care that, in 
embellishing nature, he do not altogether disguise her ; or pre- 
tend to join with rural simplicity and happiness, such improve- 
ments as are unnatural and foreign to it. If it be not exactly 
real life which he presents to us, it must, however, be somewhat 
that resembles it. This, in my opinion, is the general idea of 
Pastoral Poetry. But, in order to examine it more particularly, 
let us consider, first, the scenery ; next, the characters ; and 
lastly, the subjects and actions which this sort of Composition 
should exhibit. 

As to the Scene, it is "clear, that it must always be laid in the 
country, and much of the Poet's merit depends on describing it 
beautifully. Virgil is, in this respect, excelled by Theocritus, 
whose descriptions of natural beauties are richer, and more pic- 
turesque than those of the other.* In every Pastoral, a scene, 

* What rural scenery, for instance, can be painted in more lively colours than the 
following description exhibits ? 

Ev re (3a9eiaig 
'Adeiag o^ivoio x a P*tvve<nv eKXei9ivp,eg 
"Ev re VEOTfidroKTi yeya96reg oivapeoiai. 
TioWai 8' dfifxiv vTrepQe Kara Kparbg 8ovebvro' 
'Alyeipoi 7rreXeai re' to 8' eyyiOev lepbv v8u)p 
TUvptydv el, avrpoio Kareifiopevov KeXapvo8ev. 
Tot 8e TTori cnciEpaig opo8ap.vi(nv avOaXiioveg 
Terriyeg XaXayevvreg e\ov rrovov. a 8' oXoXvywv 
TrjXSQev ev irvKivaZai fidrwv rpvZ,eaKev atcavOaig. 
"Aei8ov Kopv8oL kcli a.Kav9i8eg eaeve rpvyo)V 
U(or(ovro Zovdai 7ri8aicag ap,(j>i fisXurcrai 
riavr ojcr8ev Sepeog fiaXa rriovog ; uxr8e 8' &)Tro)pr\q. 
"Oxvai [iev rcdp rroaai irapa irXevoauji 8e fiaXa 
Aaxj/iXeiog dpfttv eicvXtv8ero roi 8' e\zexvvro 
"OpTTctKeg (3pa ftvXoKTt KaratpiQovreg epa<r8e. 

Theoceit. Idyll, fii. 132. 

On soft beds recline 
Of lentisk, and young branches of the vine : 
Poplars and elms above, their foliage spread, 
Lent a cool shade, and waved the breezy head •, 
Below, a stream, from the nymphs' sacred cave, 
In free meanders led its murm'ring wave : / 

In the warm sun-beams, verdant shades among, 
Shrill grasshoppers renewed their plaintive song ; 
At distance far, concealed in shades, alone, 
Sweet Philomela poured her tuneful moan : 
The lark, the goldfinch, warbled lays of love, 
And sweetly pensive, cooed the turtle dove : 
While honey bees, for ever on the wing, 
Hummed round the flowers, or sipt the silver spring., 
The rich, ripe season, gratified the sense 
With summer's sweets, and autumn's redolence. 
Apples and pears lay strewed in heaps around, 
And the plum's loaded branches kissed the ground. Fawkes. 



LECT. XXXIX.] PASTORAL POETRY. 463 

or rural prospect, should be distinctly drawn, and set before 
us. It is not enough, that we have those unmeaning groups 
of violets and roses, of birds, and brooks, and breezes, which 
our common Pastoral-mongers throw together, and which are 
perpetually recurring upon us without variation. A good Poet 
ought to give us such a landscape, as a painter could copy 
after. His object must be particularised: the stream, the rock, 
or the tree, must, each of them, stand forth, so as to make a 
figure in the imagination, and to give us a pleasing conception 
of the place where we are. A single object, happily introduced, 
will sometimes distinguish and characterize a whole scene ; such 
as the antique rustic Sepulchre, a very beautiful object in a 
landscape : which Virgil has set before us, and which he has 
taken from Theocritus : 

Hinc adeo media est nobis via ; naraque sepulchrum 

Incipit apparere Bianoris; hie ubi densas 

Agricolffi stringunt frondes. * . Ecl. IX. 

Not only in professed descriptions of the scenery, but in the fre- 
quent allusions to natural objects, which occur, of course, in 
Pastorals, the Poet must, above all things, study variety. He 
must diversify his face of nature, by presenting to us new images; 
or otherwise, he will soon become insipid with those known 
topics of description, which were original, it is true, in the first 
Poets, who copied them from nature, but which are now worn 
threadbare by incessant imitation. It is also incumbent on him 
to suit the scenery to the subject of the Pastoral ; and, according 
as it is of a gay or a melancholy kind, to exhibit nature under 
such forms as may correspond with the emotions or sentiments 
which he describes. Thus Virgil, in his second Eclogue, which 
contains the Lamentation of a despairing Lover, gives, with 
propriety, a gloomy appearance to the scene : 

Tantum inter densas, umbrosa cacumina, fagos, 
Assidue veniebat ; ibi haec incondita solus 
Montibus et sylvis studio jactabat inani. f 

With regard to the characters., or persons, which are proper to 
be introduced into Pastorals, it is not enough that they be per- 
sons residing in the country. The adventures, or the discourses 
of courtiers or citizens, in the country, are not what we look for 
in such Writings ; we expect to be entertained by Shepherds, 

* To our mid journey are we come, 

I see the top of old Bianor's tomb ; 
Here Maeris, where the swains thick branches prune, 
And strew their leaves, our voices let us tune. Warton. 

t Mid shades of thickest beech he pined alone, 

To the wild woods and mountains made his moan ; 

Still day by day, in incoherent strains, 

'Twas all he could, despairing told his pains. Waeton. 



464 PASTORAL POETRY. [EECT. XXXIX. 

or persons wholly engaged in rural occupations ; whose inno- 
cence and freedom from the cares of the world may, in our 
imagination, form an agreeable contrast with the manners and 
characters of those who are engaged in the bustle of life. 

One of the principal difficulties which here occurs has been 
already hinted ; that of keeping the exact medium between too 
much rusticity on the one hand, and too much refinement on the 
other. The Shepherd, assuredly, must be plain and unaffected 
in his manner of thinking, on all subjects. An amiable simpli- 
city must be the ground-work of his character. At the same 
time, there is no necessity for his being dull and insipid. He 
may have good sense and reflection ; he may have sprightliness 
and vivacity ; he may have very tender and delicate feelings ; 
since these are, more or less, the portion of men in all ranks of 
life; and since, undoubtedly, there was much genius in the 
world, before there were learning, or arts, to refine it. But 
then he must not subtilise ; he must not deal in general reflec- 
tions, and abstract reasoning; and still less in the points and 
conceits of an affected gallantry, which surely belong not to his 
character and situation. Some of these conceits are the chief 
blemishes of the Italian Pastorals, which are otherwise beautiful. 
When Aminta, in Tasso, is disentangling his Mistress's hair from 
the tree to which a savage had bound it, he is represented as 
saying : " Cruel tree ! how couldst thou injure that lovely hair 
which did thee so much honour? thy rugged trunk was not 
worthy of such lovely knots. What advantage have the ser- 
vants of love, if those precious chains are common to them, and 
to the tree ? " * Such strained sentiments as these, ill befit the 
woods. Rural personages are supposed to speak the language 
of plain sense and natural feelings. When they describe, or 
relate, they do it with simplicity, and naturally allude to rural 
circumstances; as in those beautiful lines of one of Virgil's 
Eclogues : 

Sepibus in nostris parvam te roscida mala 
(Dux ego vester eram) vidi cum matre legentem ; 
Alter ab undecimo turn me jam ceperat annus, 
Jam fragiles poteram a terra contingere ramos. 
Ut vidi, ut perii, ut me malus abstulit error, t 

* Gia di nodi si bei non era degno 
Cosi rovido tronco ; or che vantaggio 
Hanno i servi d'amor, se lor commune 
E' con le piante il pretioso laccio 1 
Pianta crudel ! potesti quel bel crine 
Offender, tu, ch' a te seo tanto onore ! Atto III. Sc. I. 

+ Once with your mother to our fields you came 
For dewy apples ; thence I date my flame ; 
The choicest fruit I pointed to your view, 
Though young, my raptured soul was fixed on you ; 
The boughs I just could reach with little arms j 
But then, even then, could feel thy powerful charms. 
O, how I gazed, in pleasing transport tost ! 
How glowed my heart in sweet delusion lost ! Warton. 



LECT. XXXIX.] PASTOKAL POETRY. 465 

In another passage, he makes a Shepherdess throw an apple 
at her lover : 

Turn fugit ad salices, et se cupit ante videri.* 

This is naive, as the French express it, and perfectly suited to 
Pastoral manners. Mr. Pope wanted to imitate this passage, 
and, as he thought, to improve upon it. He does it thus : 

The sprightly Sylvia trips along the green, 
She runs ; hut hopes she does not run unseen ; 
While a kind glance at her pursuer flies, 
How much at variance are her feet and eyes ! 

This falls far short of Virgil ; the natural and pleasing sim- 
plicity of the description is destroyed, by the quaint and affected 
turn in the last line : " How much at variance are her feet 
and eyes." 

Supposing the Poet to have formed correct ideas concerning 
his Pastoral characters and personages ; the next inquiry is, 
About what is he to employ them ? and what are to be the sub- 
jects of his Eclogues ? For it is not enough, that he gives us 
Shepherds discoursing together. Every good Poem, of every 
kind, ought to have a subject which should, in some way, interest 
us. Now, here, I apprehend, lies the chief difficulty of Pastoral 
Writing. The active scenes of country life either are, or to most 
describers appear to be, too barren of incidents. The state of a 
shepherd, or a person occupied in rural employments only, is 
exposed to few of those accidents and revolutions which render 
his situation interesting, or produce curiosity or surprise. The 
tenor of his life is uniform. His ambition. is conceived to be 
without policy, and his love without intrigue. Hence it is, thatj 
of all Poems, the most meagre commonly in the subject, and the 
least diversified in the strain, is the Pastoral. From the first 
lines, we can, generally, guess at all that is to follow. It is 
either a Shepherd who sits down solitary by a brook, to lament 
the absence or cruelty of his mistress, and to tell us how the 
trees wither, and the flowers droop, now that she is gone ; or 
we have two Shepherds who challenge one another to sing, 
rehearsing alternate verses, which have little either of meaning* 
or subject, till the Judge rewards one with a studded crook, 
and another with a beechen bowl. To the frequent repetition of 
common-place topics, of this sort, which have been thrummed 
over by all Eclogue writers since the days of Theocritus, and 
Virgil, is owing much of that insipidity which prevails in Pas- 
toral Compositions. 

I much question, however, whether this insipidity be not 

* My Phyllis me with pelted apples plies ; 
Then, tripping to the wood, the wanton hies, 
And wishes to be seen hefore she flies. Drvden. 



466 PASTORAL POETRY. [LECT. XXXIX. 

•owing to the fault of the Poets, and to their barren and slavish 
imitation of the ancient pastoral topics, rather than to the con- 
fined nature of the subject. For why may not Pastoral Poetry 
take a wider range ? Human nature and human passions are 
much the same in every rank of life ; and wherever these pas- 
sions operate on objects that are within the rural sphere, there 
may be a proper subject for Pastoral. One would indeed choose 
to remove from this sort of Composition the operations of violent 
and direful passions, and to present such only as are consistent 
with innocence, simplicity, and virtue. But under this limitation, 
there will still be abundant scope for a careful observer of nature 
to exert his genius. The various adventures which give occa- 
sion to those engaged in country life to display their disposition 
and temper ; the scenes of domestic felicity or disquiet ; the 
attachment of friends and of brothers ; the rivalship and compe- 
titions of lovers; the unexpected successes or misfortunes of 
families, might give occasion to many a pleasing and tender 
incident ; and were more of the narrative and sentimental inter- 
mixed with the descriptive in this kind of Poetry, it would 
become much more interesting than it now generally is, to the 
bulk of readers.* 

The two great fathers of Pastoral Poetry are, Theocritus and 
Virgil. Theocritus was a Sicilian ; and as he has laid the scene 
of his Eclogues in his own country, Sicily became ever afterwards 
a sort of consecrated ground for Pastoral Poetry. His Idyllia, 
as he has entitled them, are not all of equal merit ; nor, indeed, 
are they all Pastorals; but some of them, poems of a quite 
different nature. In such, however, as are properly Pastorals, 
there are many and great beauties. He is distinguished for the 
simplicity of his sentiments ; for the great sweetness and harmony 
of his numbers, and for the richness of his scenery and descrip- 
tion. He is the original, of which Virgil is the imitator. For 
most of Virgil's highest beauties in his Eclogues are copied from 
Theocritus; in many places he has done nothing more than 
translate him. He must be allowed, however, to have imitated 
him with great judgment, and in some respects to have im- 
proved upon him. For Theocritus it cannot be denied, descends 
sometimes into ideas that are gross ancj mean, and makes his 
shepherds abusive and immodest ; whereas Virgil is free from 
offensive rusticity, and at the same time preserves the character 
of pastoral simplicity. The same distinction obtains between 
Theocritus and Virgil, as between many other of the Greek and 
Roman writers. The Greek led the way, followed nature more 
closely, and showed more original genius. The Roman disco- 
vered more of the polish and correctness of art. We have a few 

* The above observations on the barrenness of the common Eclogues were written 
before any translation from the German had made us acquainted in this country with 
Gesner's Idylls, in which the ideas that had occurred to me for the improvement of 
Pastoral Poetry, are fully realized. 



LECT. XXXIX.] PASTORAL POETRY. 467 

remains of other two Greek Poets in the Pastoral Style, Mos- 
chus and Bion, which have very considerable merit ; and if they 
want the simplicity of Theocritus, excel him in tenderness and 
delicacy. 

The modern writers of Pastorals have, generally, contented 
themselves with copying, or imitating, the descriptions and senti- 
ments of the ancient Poets. Sannazarius, indeed, a famous 
Latin Poet, in the age of Leo X., attempted a bold innovation. 
He composed Piscatory Eclogues ; changing the scene from 
Woods to the Sea, and from the life of Shepherds to that of 
Fishermen. But the innovation was so unhappy, that he has 
gained no followers. For the life of Fishermen is, obviously, 
much more hard and toilsome than that of Shepherds, and pre- 
sents to the fancy much less agreeable images. Flocks, and 
Trees, and Flowers, are objects of greater beauty, and more 
generally relished by men, than fishes and marine productions. 
Of all the moderns, M. Gesner, a Poet of Switzerland, has been 
the most successful in his Pastoral Compositions. He has intro- 
duced into his Idylls (as he entitles them) many new ideas. His 
rural scenery is often striking, and his descriptions are lively. 
He presents pastoral life to us, with all the embellishments of 
which it is susceptible ; but without any excess of refinement. 
What forms the chief merit of this Poet, is, that he writes to the 
heart ; and has enriched the subject of his Idylls with incidents 
which give rise to much tender sentiment. Scenes of domestic 
felicity are beautifully painted. The mutual affection of hus- 
bands and wives, of parents and children, of brothers and sisters, 
as well as of lovers, are displayed in a pleasing and touching 
manner. From not understanding the language in which M. 
Gesner writes, I can be no judge of the Poetry of his Style : 
but, in the subject and conduct of his Pastorals, he appears to 
me to have outdone all the Moderns. 

Neither Mr. Pope's, nor Mr. Philips's Pastorals do any great 
honour to the English Poetry. Mr. Pope's were composed in 
his youth ; which may be an apology for other faults, but cannot 
well excuse the barrenness that appears in them. They are 
written in remarkably smooth and flowing numbers : and this is 
their chief merit; for there is scarcely any thought in them which 
can be called his own ; scarcely any description, or any image of 
nature, which has the marks of being original or copied from 
nature herself; but a repetition of the common images that are 
to be found in Virgil, and in all poets who write of rural themes. 
Philips attempted to be more simple and natural than Pope; but 
he wanted genius to support his attempt, or to write agreeably. 
He, too, runs on the common and beaten topics; and endea- 
vouring to be simple, he becomes flat and insipid. There was 
no small competition between these two Authors, at the time 
when their Pastorals were published. In some Papers of the 
Guardian, great partiality was shown to Philips, and high praise 



468 PASTORAL POETRY. [LECT. XXXIX. 

bestowed upon him. Mr. Pope, resenting this preference, under 
a feigned name, procured a paper to be inserted in the Guardian, 
wherein he seemingly carries on the plan of extolling Philips ; 
but in reality satirises him most severely with ironical praises ; 
and, in an artful covered manner, gives the palm to himself.* 
About the same time, Mr. Gay published his Shepherd's Week, 
in Six Pastorals, which are designe'd to ridicule that sort of 
simplicity which Philips and his partisans extolled, and are, 
indeed, an ingenious burlesque of Pastoral Writing, when it 
rises no higher than the manners of modern clowns and rustics. 
Mr. Shenstone's Pastoral Ballad, in four parts, may justly be 
reckoned, I think, one of the most elegant Poems of this kind, 
which we have in English. 

I have not yet mentioned one form in which Pastoral Writing 
has appeared in latter ages, that is, when extended into a Play, 
or regular Drama, where plot, characters, and passions, are 
joined with the simplicity and innocence of rural manners. This 
is the chief improvement which the Moderns have made on this 
species of Composition ; and of this nature we have two Italian 
pieces, which are much celebrated, Gruarini's Pastor Fido, and 
Tasso's Aminta. Both of these possess great beauties, and are 
entitled to the reputation they have gained. To the latter, the 
preference seems due, as being less intricate in the plot and 
conduct, and less strained and affected in the sentiments; and 
though not wholly free from Italian refinement (of which I 
already gave one instance, the worst, indeed, that occurs in all 
the Poem), it is, on the whole, a performance of high merit. 
The strain of the Poetry is gentle and pleasing ; and the Italian 
language contributes to add much of that softness, which is 
peculiarly suited to Pastoral, f 

* See Guardian, No. 40. 

t It may be proper to take notice here, that the charge against Tasso for his points 
and conceits, has sometimes been carried too far. Mr. Addison, for instance, in a 
Paper of the Guardian, censuring his Aminta, gives this example, "That Sylvia enters 
adorned with a garland of flowers, and after viewing herself in a fountain, breaks out in 
a speech to the flowers on her head, and tells them that she did not wear them to adorn 
herself, but to make them ashamed." " Whoever can bear this," he adds, " may be 
assured that he has no taste for Pastoral." Guard. No. 38. But Tasso's Sylvia, in 
truth, makes no such ridiculous figure, and we are obliged to suspect that Mr. Addison 
had not read the Aminta. Daphne, a companion of Sylvia, appears in conversation 
with Thyrsis, the confidant of Aminta, Sylvia's lover ; and in order to show him, that 
Sylvia was not so simple, or insensible to her own charms, as she affected to be, gives 
him this instance ; that she had caught her one day adjusting her dress by a fountain, 
and applying now one flower and now another to her neck ; and after comparing their 
colours with her own, she broke into a smile, as if she had seemed to say, I will wear 
you, not for my ornaments, but to show how much you yield to me ; and when caught 

thus admiring herself, she threw away her flowers, and blushed for shame. This 

description of the vanity of a rural coquette, is no more than what is natural, and very 
different from what the author of the Guardian represents it. 

This censure on Tasso was not originally Mr Addison's. Bouhours, in his Maniere 
du bien penser dans les ouvrages d'esprit, appears to have been the first who gave this 
misrepresentation of Sylvia's Speech, and founded a criticism on it. Fontenelle, in his 
Discourse on Pastoral Poetry, followed him in this criticism. Mr. Addison, or whoever 
was the Author of that Paper in the Guardian, copied from them both. Mr. Warton, 



LECT. XXXIX.] LYRIC POETRY. 

I must not omit the mention of another Pastoral Drama, 
which will bear being brought into comparison with any compo- 
sition of this kind, in any language; that is, Allan Ramsay's 
Gentle Shepherd. It is a great disadvantage to this beautiful 
Poem, that it is written in the old rustic dialect of Scotland, 
which, in a short time, will probably be entirely obsolete, and 
not intelligible ; and it is a further disadvantage that it is so 
entirely formed on the rural manners of Scotland, that none but 
a native of that country can thoroughly understand, or relish it. 
But though subject to these local disadvantages, which confine 
its reputation within narrow limits, it is full of so much natural 
description, and tender sentiments, as would do honour to any 
Poet. The characters are well drawn, the incidents affecting; 
the scenery and manners lively and just. It affords a strong 
proof, both of the power which nature and simplicity possess, to 
reach the heart in every sort of Writing ; and of the variety of 
pleasing characters and subjects, with which Pastoral Poetry 
when properly managed, is capable of being enlivened. 

I proceed next to treat of Lyric Poetry, or the Ode; a 
species of Poetical Composition which possesses much dignity, 
and in which many Writers have distinguished themselves, 

in the Prefatory Discourse to his translation of Virgil's Eclogues, repeats the observation. 
Sylvia's Speech to the Flowers, with which she was adorned, is always quoted as the 
flagrant instance of the false taste of the Italian Poets. Whereas, Tasso gives us no such 
Speech of Sylvia's, hut only informs us of what her companion supposed her to be 
thinking, or saying to herself, when she was privately admiring her own beauty. After 
charging so many eminent Critics, for having fallen into this strange inaccuracy, from 
copying one another, without looking into the Author whom they censure, itis necessary 
for me to insert the passage which has occasioned this remark. Daphne speaks thus to 
Thyrsis : 

Hora per dirti il ver, non mi resolvo 

Si Sylvia e semplicetta, come pare 

A le parole, a gli atti. Hier vidi un segno 

Che me ne mette in dubbio. Io la trovai 

La presso la cittade in quei gran prati, .. 

Ove fra stagni giace un isoletta, 

Sovra essa un lago limpido e tranquillo, 

Tutta pendente in atto, che parea 

Vegheggiar se medesma, e 'nsieme insieme 

Chieder consiglio a 1' acque, in qual maniera 

Dispor dovesse in su la fronte i crini, 

E sovra i crini il velo, e sovra il velo 

I fior, che tenea in grembo ; e spesso spesso 

Hor prendeva un ligustro, hor una rosa, 

E l' accostava al bel candido collo, 

A le guancie vermiglie, e de colori , 

Fea paragone ; e poi, siccome lieta 

De la vittoria lampeggiava un riso 

Che parea che dicesse ; io pur vi vinco ; 

Ni porto voi per ornamento mio, 

Ma porto voi sol per vergogna vostra. 

Perche si veggia quanto mi cedete. 

Ma mentre ella s' ornava, e vagheggiava, 

Rivolsi gli occhi a caso, e si fu accorta 

Ch' io di la m' era accorta, e vergognando, 

Rizzosi tosto, e i fior lascio cadere : 

In tanto io piu ridea del suo rossore, 

Ella piu s' arrossia del riso mio. Aminta, Atto ii. Sc. 2. 



470 LYKIC POETRY. [LECT. XXXIX. 

in every age. Its peculiar character is, that it is intended to be 
sung, or accompanied with music. Its designation implies this. 
Ode is, in Greek, the same with Song or Hymn ; and Lyric 
Poetry imports, that the Verses are accompanied with a lyre, 
or musical instrument. This distinction was not, at first, 
peculiar to any one species of Poetry. For, as I observed 
in the last Lecture, Music and poetry were coeval, and were, 
originally, always joined together. But after their separation 
took place, after Bards had begun to make Verse Compositions, 
which were to be recited or read, not to be sung, such Poems 
as were designed to be still joined with Music or Song, were, 
by way of distinction, called Odes. 

In the Ode, therefore, Poetry retains its first and most an- 
cient form ; that form, under which the original Bards poured 
forth their enthusiastic strains, praised their Gods and their 
Heroes, celebrated their victories, and lamented their misfor- 
tunes. It is from this circumstance, of the Ode's being supposed 
to retain its original union with Music, that we are to 
deduce the proper idea, and the peculiar qualities of this kind 
of Poetry. It is not distinguished from other kinds, by the 
subjects on which it is employed ; for these may be extremely 
various. I know no distinction of subject that belongs to it, 
except that other Poems are often employed in the recital of 
actions, whereas sentiments, of one kind or other, form, almost 
always, the subject of the Ode. But it is chiefly the spirit, 
the manner of its execution, that marks and characterises it. 
Music and Song naturally add to the warmth of Poetry. They 
tend to transport, in a higher degree, both the person who 
sings and the persons who hear. They justify, therefore, a 
bolder and more passionate strain, than can be supported in 
simple recitation. On this is formed the peculiar character of 
the Ode. Hence, the enthusiasm that belongs to it, and the 
liberties it is allowed to take, beyond any other species of 
Poetry. Hence, that neglect of regularity, those digressions, 
and that disorder which it is supposed to admit ; and which, 
indeed, most Lyric Poets have not failed sufficiently to ex- 
emplify in their practice. 

The effects of Music upon the mind are chiefly two; to 
raise it above its ordinary state, and fill it with high and 
enthusiastic emotions; or to soothe, and melt it into the 
gentle pleasurable feelings. Hence, the Ode may either as- 
pire to the former character of the sublime and noble, or 
it may descend to the latter, of the pleasant and the gay ; 
and between these there is, also, a middle region, of the 
mild and temperate emotions, which the Ode may often occupy 
to advantage. 

All Odes may be comprised under four denominations. First, 
Sacred Odes; Hymns addressed to God, or composed on re- 
ligious subjects. Of this nature are the Psalms of David, which 



LECT. XXXIX.] LYKIC POETRY. 471 

exhibit to us this species of Lyric Poetry in its highest degree 
of perfection. Secondly, Heroic Odes, which are employed in 
the praise of heroes, and in the celebration of martial exploits 
and great actions. Of this kind are all Pindar's Odes, and 
some few of Horace's. These two kinds ought to have sub- 
limity and elevation for their reigning character. Thirdly, 
Moral and Philosophical Odes, where the sentiments are chiefly 
inspired by virtue, friendship, and humanity. Of this kind, are 
many of Horace's Odes, and several of our best modern Lyric 
Productions; and here the Ode possesses that middle region, 
which, as I observed, it sometimes occupies. Fourthly, Festive 
and Amorous Odes, calculated merely for pleasure and amuse- 
ment. Of this nature, are all Anacreon's; some of Horace's; 
and a great number of songs and modern productions that claim 
to be of the Lyric species. The reigning character of these 
ought to be elegance, smoothness, and gaiety. 

One of the chief difficulties in composing Odes, arises from 
that enthusiasm which is understood to be a characteristic of 
Lyric Poetry. A professed Ode, even of the moral kind, but 
more especially if it attempt the sublime, is expected to be 
enlivened and animated, in an uncommon degree. Full of this 
idea, the Poet, when he begins to write an Ode, if he has 
any real warmth of genius, is apt to deliver himself up to 
it, without controul or restraint ; if he has it not, he strains 
after it, and thinks himself bound to assume the appearance 
of being all fervour, and all flame. In either case he is in 
great hazard of becoming extravagant. The licentiousness of 
writing without order, method, or connexion, has infected the 
Ode more than any other species of Poetry. Hence, in the 
class of Heroic Odes, we find so few that one can read with 
pleasure. The Poet is out of sight in a moment. He gets 
up into the clouds ; becomes so abrupt in his transitions ; so 
eccentric and irregular in his motions, and of course so obscure, 
that we essay in vain to follow him, or to partake of his 
raptures. I do not require, that an Ode should be as regular 
in the structure of its parts, as a Didactic, or an Epic Poem. But 
still, in every composition, there ought to be a subject ; there 
ought to be parts which make up a whole ; there should be a 
connexion of those parts with one another. The transitions 
from thought to thought may be light and delicate, such as are 
prompted by a lively fancy ; but still they should be such as 
preserve the connexion of ideas, and show the author to be one 
who thinks, and not one who raves. Whatever authority may 
be pleaded for the incoherence and disorder of Lyric Poetry, 
nothing can be more certain, than that any composition which is 
so irregular in its method, as to become obscure to the bulk 
of Readers, is so much worse upon that account. # 

* " La plupart des^ ceux qui parlent de l'enthousiasme de l'ode en parlent comme 
s'ils 6toient aux-memes dans le trouble qu'ils veulent definir. Ce ne sont que grands 






472 LYRIC POETRY. [LECT. XXXIX. 

The extravagant liberty which several of the modern Lyric 
Writers assume to themselves in the Versification, increases 
the disorder of this species of Poetry. They prolong their 
periods to such a degree, they wander through so many dif- 
ferent measures, and employ such a variety of long and short 
lines, corresponding in rhyme at so great a distance from each 
other, that all sense of melody is utterly lost. Whereas Lyric 
Composition ought, beyond every other species of Poetry, to 
pay attention to melody and beauty of sound ; and the Ver- 
sification of those Odes may be justly accounted the best, 
which renders the harmony of the measure most sensible to 
every common ear. 

Pindar, the great Father of Lyric Poetry, has been the 
occasion of leading his imitators into some of the defects I have 
now mentioned. His genius was sublime ; his expressions 
are beautiful and happy; his descriptions picturesque. But 
finding it a very barren subject to sing the praises of those 
who had gained the prize in the public games, he is perpetually 
digressive, and fills up his Poems with Fables of the Gods 
and Heroes, that have little connexion either with his subject 
or with one another. The ancients admired him greatly ; but 
as many of the histories of particular families and cities to 
Avhich he alludes, are now unknown to us, he is so obscure, 
partly from his subjects, and partly from his rapid, abrupt 
manner of treating them, that, notwithstanding the beauty of 
his expression, our pleasure in reading him is much diminished. 
One would imagine, that many of his modern imitators thought 
the best way to catch his spirit, was to imitate his disorder and 
obscurity. In several of the chorusses of Euripides and Sopho- 
cles, we have the same kind of Lyric Poetry as in Pindar, 
carried on with more clearness and connexion, and at the same 
time with much sublimity. 

Of all the writers of Odes, ancient or modern, there is none, 
that, in point of correctness, harmony, and happy expression, can 
vie with Horace. He has descended from the Pindaric rapture 
to a more moderate degree of elevation ; and joins connected 
thought, and good sense, with the highest beauties of Poetry. 

mots de fureur divine, de transports de l'ame, de mouvemens, de lumieres, qui mis 
bout-a-bout dans des pbrases pompeuses, ne produisent pourtant aucune idee distincte. 
Si on les en croit, l'essence de l'enthousiasme est de ne pouvoir 6tre compris que par les 
esprits du premiere ordre, a la tete desquels ils se supposent, et dont ils exciuent tous 
ceux que osent ne les pas entendre. — Le beau desordre de l'ode est un effet de l'art ; 
mais il faut prendre garde de dormer trop d'etendue a ce terme. On autoriseroit par la 
tous les 6carts imaginables. Un poete n'auroit plus qu'a exprimer avec force toutes les 
pens6es qui lui viendroient successiveinent ; il se tiendroit dispense d'en examiner 
le rapport, et de se faire un plan, dont toutes les parties se pretassent mutuellement des 
beautes. II n'y auroit ni commencement, ni milieu, ni fin, dans son ouvrage ; et ce- 
pendant l'auteur se croiroit d'autant plus sublime, qu'il seroit moins raisonable. Mais 
qui produiroit une pareille composition dans l'esprit du lecteur 1 Elfe ne laisseroit 
qu'un etourdissement, caus6 par la magnificence et l'harraonie des paroles, sans y 
faire naitre que des idees confuses, qui chasseroient Tune ou l'autre, au lieu de con- 
courir ensemble a, fixer et a eclairer l'esprit." 

OZuvres de M. De la Motte, torn. i. Discours sur TOde. 



LECT. XXXIX.] LYEIC POETRY. 473 

He does not aspire beyond that middle region, which I mentioned 
as belonging to the Ode ; and those Odes, in which he attempts 
the sublime, are perhaps not always his best.* The peculiar 
character, in which he excels, is grace and elegance ; and in this 
Style of Composition, no Poet has ever attained to a greater 
perfection than Horace. No Poet supports a moral sentiment 
with more dignity, touches a gay one more happily, or possesses 
the art of trifling more agreeably when he chooses to trifle. 
His language is so fortunate that with a single word or epithet, 
he often conveys a whole description to the fancy. Hence 
he ever has been, and will continue to be, a favourite Author 
with all persons of taste. 

Among the Latin Poets of later ages, there have been many 
imitators of Horace. One of the most distinguished is Casimir, 
a Polish Poet of the last century, who wrote four books of Odes. 
In graceful ease of expression, he is far inferior to the Boman. 
He oftener affects the sublime ; and in the attempt, like other 
Lyric Writers, frequently becomes harsh and unnatural. But, 
on several occasions, he discovers a considerable degree of 
original genius, and poetical fire. Buchanan, in some of* his 
Lyric compositions, is very elegant and classical. 

Among the French, the Odes of Jean Baptiste Bousseau 
have been much and justly celebrated. They possess great 
beauty, both of sentiment and expression. They are animated, 
without being rhapsodical ; and are not inferior to any poetical 
productions in the French language. 

In our own Language, we have several Lyric Compositions 
of considerable merit. Dryden's Ode on St. Cecilia, is well 
known. Mr. Gray is distinguished in some of his Odes, both 
for tenderness and sublimity; and in Dodsley's Miscellanies, 
several very beautiful Lyric Poems are to be found. As to pro- 
fessed Pindaric Odes, they are, with a few exceptions, so inco- 
herent, as seldom to be intelligible, Cowley, at all times harsh, 
is doubly so in his Pindaric Compositions. In his Anacreontic 
Odes, he is much happier. They are smooth and elegant ; and, 
indeed, the most agreeable, and the most perfect, in their kind, 
of all Mr. Cowley's Poems. 

* There is no Ode whatever of Horace's, without great beauties. But though 
I may be singular in my opinion, I cannot help thinking that in some of those Odes 
which have been much admired for sublimity (such as Ode iv. Lib. 4. " Qualein mi- 
nistrum ful minis alitem," &c.) there appears somewhat of a strained and forced effort to 
be lofty. The genius of this amiable Poet shows itself, according to my judgment, to 
greater advantage, in themes of a more temperate kind. 



K K 



474 DIDACTIC POETRY. [LECT. XL, 

* LECTURE XL. 

DIDACTIC POETRY DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. 

Having treated of Pastoral and Lyric Poetry, I proceed next 
to Didactic Poetry ; under which is included a numerous Class 
of Writings. The ultimate end of all Poetry, indeed of every 
Composition, should be, to make some useful impression on the 
mind. This useful impression is most commonly made in 
Poetry, by indirect methods ; as by fable, by narration, by repre- 
sentation of characters; but Didactic Poetry openly professes 
its intention of conveying knowledge and instruction. It diifers, 
therefore, in the form only, not in the scope and substance, from 
a philosophical, a moral, or a critical treatise in Prose. At the 
same time, by means of its form, it has several advantages over 
Prose Instruction. By the charm of Versification and Numbers, 
it renders instruction more agreeable ; by the descriptions, 
episodes, and other embellishments, which it may interweave, it 
detains and engages the fancy ; it fixes also useful circumstances 
more deeply in the memory. Hence, it is a field, wherein a 
Poet may gain great honour, may display both much genius, and 
much knowledge and judgment. 

It may be executed in different manners. The Poet may 
choose some instructive subject, and he may treat it regularly, 
and in form ; or without intending a great or regular work, he 
may only inveigh against particular vices, or make some moral 
observations on human life and characters, as is commonly done 
in Satires and Epistles. All these come under the Denomina- 
tion of Didactic Poetry. 

The highest species of it, is a regular treatise on some philo- 
sophical, grave, or useful subject. Of this nature we have 
several, both ancient and modern, of great merit and character : 
such as Lucretius's six Books De Rerum Natura, Virgil's 
Georgics, Pope's Essay on Criticism, Akenside's Pleasures of 
the' Imagination, Armstrong on Health, Horace's, Vida's, and 
Boileau's Art of Poetry. 

In all such works, as instruction is the professed object, the 
fundamental merit consists in sound thought, just principles, 
clear and apt illustrations. The Poet must instruct; but he 
must study, at the same time, to enliven his instructions, by the 
introduction of such figures, and such circumstances, as may 
amuse the imagination, may conceal the dryness of his subject, 
and embellish it with poetical painting. Virgil, in his Georgics, 
presents us here with a perfect model. He has the art of 
raising and beautifying the most trivial circumstances in rural 
life. When he is going to say, that the labour of the country 
must begin in spring, he expresses himself thus : 



LECT. XL.] DIDACTIC POETRY, 475 

Vere novo, gelidus canis cum montibus humor 
Liquitur, et Zephyro putris se gleba resolvit ; 
Depresso incipiat jam turn mihi taurus aratro 
Ingemere, et sulco attritus splendescere vomer.* 

Instead of telling his husbandman in plain language, that his 
crops will fail through bad managment, his language is, 

Heu magnum alterius frustra spectabis acervum, 
Concussaque famem in sylvis solabere quercu.f 

Instead of ordering hirn to water his grounds, he presents us 
with a beautiful landscape : 

Ecce supercilio clivosi tramitis undam 

Elicit ; ilia cadens, raucum per laevia murmur 

Saxa ciet, seatebrisque arentia temperat arva.J 

In all Didactic Works, method and order is essentially requi- 
site ; not so strict and formal as in a Prose treatise ; yet such as 
may exhibit clearly to the Reader a connected train of instruc- 
tion. Of the Didactic Poets, whom I before mentioned, Horace, 
in his Art of Poetry, is the one most censured for want of 
method. Indeed, if Horace be deficient in any thing throughout 
many of his Writings, it is in this, of not being sufficiently 
attentive to juncture and connexion of parts. He writes always 
with ease and gracefulness ; but often in a manner somewhat 
loose and rambling. There is, however, in that work, much 
good sense and excellent criticism; and, if it be considered as 
intended for the regulation of the Roman Drama, which seems 
to have been the Author's chief purpose, it will be found to be 
a more complete and regular Treatise, than under the common 
notion of its being a System of the whole Poetical Art. 

With regard to Episodes and Embellishments, great liberty is 
allowed to Writers of Didactic Poetry. We soon tire of a 
continued series of instructions, especially in a poetical work, 
where we look for entertainment. The great art of rendering 

* While yet the Spring is young, while earth unbinds 

Her frozen bosom to the western winds ; 

"While mountain snows dissolve against the Sun, 

And streams yet new from precipices run ; 

Ev'n in this early dawning of the year, 

Produce the plough and yoke the sturdy steer, 

And goad him till he groans beneath his toil, 

Till the bright share is buried in the soil. Dryden. 

t On other crops you may with envy look, 

And shake for food the long abandoned oak. Dryden. 

$ Behold when burning suns, or Syrius' beams 

Strike fiercely on the field and withering stems, 

Down from the summit of the neighbouring hills, 

O'er the smooth stones he calls the bubbling rills ; 

Soon as he clears whate'er their passage stayed, 

And marks their future current with his spade, 

Before him scattering they prevent his pains, 

And roll with hollow murmurs o'er the plains. Warton. 

K K 2 



476 DIDACTIC POETRY. [LECT. XL. 

a Didactic Poem interesting, is to relieve and amuse the Reader, 
by connecting some agreeable Episodes with the principal 
subject. These are always the parts of the work which are best 
known, and which contribute most to support the reputation of 
the Poet. The principal beauties of Virgil's Georgics lie in 
digressions of this kind, in which the Author has exerted all the 
force of his genius ; such as the prodigies that attended the 
death of Julius Caesar, the Praises of Italy, the Happiness of a 
Country Life, the Fable of Aristeus, and the moving Tale of 
Orpheus and Eurydice. In like manner, the favourite passages 
in Lucretius's work, and which alone could render such a dry 
and abstract subject tolerable in Poetry, are the Digressions on 
the Evils of Superstition, the Praise of Epicurus and his 
Philosophy, the Description of the Plague, and several other 
incidental illustrations, which are remarkably elegant, and 
adorned with a sweetness and harmony of Versification peculiar 
to that Poet. There is indeed nothing in Poetry so entertaining 
or descriptive, but what a Didactic Writer of genius may be 
allowed to introduce in some part of his work ; provided always, 
that such Episodes arise naturally from the main subject ; that 
they be not disproportioned in length to it ; and that the Author 
l^iow how to descend with propriety to the plain, as well as how 
to rise to the bold and figured Style. 

Much art may be shown by a Didactic Poet, in connecting 
his Episodes happily with his subject. Virgil is also distin- 
guished for his address in this point. After seeming to have left 
his husbandmen, he again returns to them very naturally by 
laying hold of some rural circumstance, to terminate his digres- 
sion. Thus, having spoken of the battle of Pharsalia, he 
subjoins immediately, with much art : 

Scilicet et tempus veniet, cum finibus illis, 

Agricola, incurve- terram molitus aratro, 

Exesa inveniet scabr& rubigine pila : ' ' \ 

Aut gravibus rastris galeas pulsabit inanes, 

Grandiaque effossis mirabitur ossa sepulchris.* 

In English, Dr. Akenside has attempted the most rich and 
poetical form of Didactic Writing, in his Pleasures of the Ima- 
gination ; and though, in the execution of the whole, he is not 
equal, he has, in several parts, succeeded happily, and displayed 
much genius. Dr, Armstrong, in his Art of Preserving Health, 
has not aimed at so high a strain as the other ; but he is more 
equal, and maintains throughout a chaste and correct elegance. 

Satires and Epistles naturally run into a more familiar Style, 

* Then, after length of time, the lab'ring swains 
Who turn the turf of these unhappy plains, 
Shall rusty arms from the ploughed furrows take, 
And over empty helmets pass the rake ; 
Amused at antique titles on the stones, 
And mighty relics of gigantic bones. Dryden. 



LECT. XL.] DIDACTIC POETEY. 477 

than solemn Philosophical Poetry. As the manners and cha- 
racters which occur in ordinary life, are their subjects, they 
require being treated with somewhat of the ease and freedom of 
conversation ; and hence it is commonly the " musa pedestris," 
which reigns in such Compositions. 

Satire, in its first state among the Romans, had a form dif- 
ferent from what it afterwards assumed. Its origin is obscure, 
and has given occasion to altercation among Critics. It seems 
to have been at first a relic of the Ancient Comedy, written 
partly in prose, partly in Yerse, and abounding with scurrility. 
Ennius and Lucilius corrected its grossness ; and, at last, Horace 
brought it into that form, which now gives the denomination to 
Satirical Writing. Reformation of manners is the end which 
it professes to have in view ; and in order to this end, it assumes 
the liberty of boldly censuring vice and vicious characters. It 
has been carried on in three different manners, by the three 
great Ancient Satirists, Horace, Juvenal, and Persius. Horace's 
Style has not much elevation. He entitles his Satires, " Ser- 
mones," and seems not to have intended rising much higher than 
Prose put into numbers. His manner is easy and graceful. 
They are rather the follies and weaknesses of mankind, than 
their enormous vices, which he chooses for the object of his 
Satire. He reproves with a smiling aspect; and while he 
moralizes like a sound Philosopher, discovers, at the same time, 
the politeness of a courtier. Juvenal is much more serious and 
declamatory. He has more strength and fire, and more eleva- 
tion of Style, than Horace ; but is greatly inferior to him in 
gracefulness and ease. His Satire is more zealous, more sharp 
and pointed, as being generally directed against more flagitious 
characters. As Scaliger says of him, "ardet, instat, jugulat," 
whereas Horace's character is, "admissus circum prgecordia 
ludit." Persius has a greater resemblance of the force and fire 
of Juvenal, than of the politeness of Horace. He is dis- 
tinguished for sentiments of noble and sublime morality. He is 
a nervous and lively Writer ; but withal, often harsh and 
obscure. 

Poetical Epistles, when employed on moral or critical subjects, 
seldom rise into a higher strain of Poetry than Satires. In 
the form of an Epistle, indeed many other subjects may be 
handled, and either Love Poetry, or Elegiac, may be carried on ; 
as in Ovid's Epistolas Herodium, and his Epistoke de Ponto.. 
Such works as these are designed to be merely sentimental ; and 
as their merit consists in being proper expressions of the passion 
or sentiment which forms the subject, they may assume any 
tone of Poetry that is suited to it. But Didactic Epistles, of 
which I now speak, seldom admit of much elevation. They are 
commonly intended as observations on Authors, or on Life and 
Characters ; in delivering which, the Poet does not purpose to 
compose a formal treatise, or to confine himself strictly to regu- 



478 DIDACTIC POETRY. [LECT. XL. 

lar method, but gives scope to his genius on some particular 
theme which, at the time, has prompted him to write. In all 
Didactic Poetry of this kind, it is an important rule, " quicquid 
precipes, esto brevis." Much of the grace, both of Satirical and 
Epistolary Writing, consists in a spirited conciseness. This 
gives to such composition an edge and a liveliness, which strike 
the fancy and keep attention awake. Much of their merit 
depends also on just and happy representations of characters. 
As they are not supported by those high beauties of descriptive 
and poetical language which adorn other compositions, we expect 
in return, to be entertained with lively paintings of men and 
manners, which are always pleasing; and in these, a certain 
sprightliness and turn of wit finds its proper place. The higher 
species of Poetry seldom admit it ; but here it is seasonable and 
beautiful. 

In all these respects, Mr. Pope's Ethical Epistles deserve to 
be mentioned with signal honour, as a model, next to perfect, of 
this kind of Poetry. Here, perhaps, the strength of his genius 
appeared. In the more sublime parts of Poetry he is not so 
distinguished. In the enthusiasm, the fire, the force and copi- 
ousness of poetic genius, Dry den, though a much less correct 
Writer, appears to have been superior to him. One can scarce 
think that he was capable of Epic or Tragic Poetry ; but within 
a certain limited region, he has been outdone by no Poet. His 
translation of the Iliad will remain a lasting monument to his 
honour, as the most elegant and highly finished translation that 
perhaps, ever was given of any poetical work. That he was 
not incapable of tender Poetry, appears from the Epistle of 
Eloisa to Abelard, and from the Verses to the Memory of an 
unfortunate Lady, which are almost his only sentimental pro- 
ductions; and which indeed are excellent in their kind. But 
the qualities for which he is chiefly distinguished are, judgment 
and wit, with a concise and happy expression, and a melodious 
versification. Few Poets ever had more wit, and at the same 
time more judgment, to direct the proper employment of that 
wit. This renders his Rape of the Lock the greatest master- 
piece that was ever composed, in the gay and sprightly • Style ; 
and in his serious works, such as his Essay on Man, and his 
Ethic Epistles, his wit just discovers itself as much, as to give a 
proper seasoning to grave reflections. His imitations of Horace 
are so peculiarly happy, that one is at a loss, whether most to 
admire the original, or the copy ; and they are among the few 
imitations extant, that have all the grace and ease of an original. 
His paintings of characters are natural and lively in a high 
degree; and never was any Writer so happy in that concise 
spirited Style, which gives animation to Satires and Epistles. 
We are never so sensible of the good effects of rhyme in English 
verse, as in reading these parts of his works. We see it adding 
to the Style, an elevation which otherwise it could not have 



LECT. XL.] DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. 479 

possessed ; while at the same time he manages it so artfully, that it 
never appears in the least to encumber him ; but on the con- 
trary, serves to increase the liveliness of his manner. He tells 
us himself, that he could express moral observations more con- 
cisely, and therefore more forcibly, in rhyme, than he could do 
in Prose. 

Among moral and Didactic Poets, Dr. Young is of too great 
eminence to be passed over without notice. In all his works, 
the marks of strong genius appear. His Universal Passion, 
possesses the full merit of that animated conciseness of Style, 
and lively description of characters, which I mentioned as par- 
ticularly requisite in Satirical and Didactic compositions. 
Though his wit may be often thought too sparkling, and his 
sentences too pointed, yet the vivacity of his fancy is so great, 
as to entertain every Reader. In his Night Thoughts, there is 
much energy of expression ; in the three first, there are several 
pathetic passages ; and scattered through them all, happy images 
and allusions, as well as pious reflections occur. But the senti- 
ments are frequently over-strained, and turgid ; and the Style is 
too harsh and obscure to be pleasing. Among French Authors, 
Boileau has undoubtedly much merit in Didactic Poetry. Their 
later Critics are unwilling to allow him any great share of 
original genius, or poetic fire.* But his Art of Poetry, his 
Satires and Epistles, must ever be esteemed eminent, not only 
for solid and judicious thought, but for correct and elegant poeti- 
cal expression, and fortunate imitation of the Ancients. 

From Didactic, I proceed next to treat of Descriptive Poetry, 
where the highest exertions of genius may be displayed. By 
Descriptive Poetry, I do not mean any one particular species or 
form of Composition. There are few Compositions of any 
length, that can be called purely Descriptive, or wherein the 
Poet proposes to himself no other object but merely to describe, 
without employing narration, action, or moral sentiment, as the 
ground-work of his piece. Description is generally introduced 
as an embellishment, rather than made the subject of a regular 
work. But though it seldom form a separate species of writing, 
yet into every species of Poetical Composition, Pastoral, Lyric, 
Didactic, Epic, and Dramatic, it both enters and possesses in 
each of them a very considerable place ; so that in treating of 
Poetry, it demands no small attention. 

Description is the great test of a Poet's imagination, and 
always distinguishes an original from a second-rate genius. To 
a Writer of the inferior class, Nature, when at any time he at- 
tempts to describe it, appears exhausted by those who have gone 
before him in the same tract. He sees nothing new or peculiar, 
in the object which he would paint; his conceptions of it are 
loose and vague ; and his expressions, of course, feeble and gene- 

* Vid. Poetique Francois de Marmontel. 



480 DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. [LECT. XL. 

ral. He gives us words rather than ideas ; we meet with the 
language indeed of Poetical Description, but we apprehend the 
object described very indistinctly. Whereas a true Poet makes 
us imagine that we see it before our eyes ; he catches the dis- 
tinguishing features ; he gives it the colours of life and reality ; 
he places it in such a light that a painter could copy after him. 
This happy talent is chiefly owing to a strong imagination, 
which first receives a lively impression of the object ; and then, 
by employing a proper selection of circumstances in describing 
it, transmits that impression in its full force to the imagination 
of others. 

In this selection of circumstances, lies the great art of Pic- 
turesque Description. In the first place, they ought not to be 
vulgar, and common ones, such as are apt to pass by without re- 
mark; but, as much as possible, new and original, which may 
catch the fancy, and draw attention. In the next place, they 
ought to be such as particularize the object described, and mark 
it strongly. No description that rests in generals can be good. 
For we can conceive nothing clearly in the abstract ; all distinct 
ideas are formed upon particulars. In the third place, all the 
circumstances employed ought to be uniform, and of a piece : 
that is, when describing a great object, every circumstance 
brought into view should tend to aggrandize ; or, when describ- 
ing a gay and pleasant one, should tend to beautify, that, by this 
means, the impression may rest upon the imagination, complete 
and entire ; and lastly, the circumstances in description should 
be expressed with conciseness, and with simplicity ; for when 
either too much exaggerated, or too long dwelt upon and ex- 
tended, they never fail to enfeeble the impression that is designed 
to be made. Brevity, almost always, contributes to vivacity. 
These general rules will be best understood by illustrations 
founded on particular instances. 

Of all professed Descriptive Compositions, the largest and 
fullest that I am acquainted with, in any language, is Mr. 
Thomson's Seasons ; a work which possesses very uncommon 
merit. The Style, in the midst of much splendour and strength, 
is sometimes harsh, and may be censured as deficient in ease 
and distinctness. But notwithstanding this defect, Thomson 
is a strong and beautiful Describer : for he had a feeling heart, 
and a warm imagination. He had studied and copied Nature 
with care. Enamoured of her beauties, he not only described 
them properly, but felt their impression with strong sensibility. 
The impression which he felt, he transmits to his Readers ; and 
no person of taste can peruse any one of his Seasons without 
having the ideas and feelings which belong to that Season, 
recalled, and rendered present to his mind. Several instances 
of most beautiful description might be given from him ; such 
as, the shower in Spring, the morning in Summer, and the 
man perishing in snow in Winter. But at present, I shall 






LECT. XL.] DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. 481 

produce a passage of another kind, to show the power of a 
single well-chosen circumstance, to heighten a description. In 
his Summer, relating the effects of heat in the torrid zone, 
he is led to take notice of the Pestilence that destroyed the 
English fleet, at Carthagena, under Admiral Vernon ; when he 
has the following lines : 

You, gallant Vernon, saw 
The miserable scene ; you pitying saw 
To infant weakness sunk the warrior's arms ; 
Saw the deep racking pang ; the ghastly form ; 
The lip pale quiv'ring; and the beamlesseye 
No more with ardour bright ; you heard the groans 
Of agonizing ships from shore to shore ; 
Heard nightly plunged, amid the sullen waves, 
The frequent corse. L. 1050. 

All the circumstances here are properly chosen, for setting 
this dismal scene in a strong light before our eyes. But what 
is most striking in the picture, is the last image. We are con- 
ducted through all the scenes of distress, till we come to the 
mortality prevailing in the fleet, which a vulgar Poet would 
have described by exaggerated expressions, concerning the 
multiplied trophies and victories of death. But, how much 
more is the imagination impressed by this single circumstance, 
of dead bodies, thrown overboard every night ; of the constant 
sound of their falling into the waters ; and of the Admiral 
listening to this melancholy sound, so often striking his ear ? 

Heard nightly plunged, amid the sullen waves, 
The frequent corse.* 

Mr. Parnell's Tale of the Hermit is conspicuous, throughout 
the whole of it, for beautiful Descriptive Narration. The man- 
ner of the Hermit's setting forth to visit the world ; his meeting 

* The eulogium which Dr. Johnson, in his Lives of the Poets, gives of Thomson, 
is high, and, in my opinion, very just: " As a writer, he is entitled to one praise 
of the highest kind ; his mode of thinking, and of expressing his thoughts, is original. 
His Blank Verse is no more the Blank Verse of Milton, or of any other Poet, than the 
Rhymes of Prior are the Rhymes of Cowley. His numbers, his pauses, his diction, are 
of his own growth, without transcription, without imitation. He thinks in a peculiar 
train, and he thinks always as a man of genius. He looks round on nature and life, 
with the eye which nature hestows only on a Poet ; the eye that distinguishes in every 
thing presented to its view, whatever there is on which imagination can delight to be 
detained ; and with a mind that at once comprehends the vast and attends to the 
minute. The Reader of the Seasons wonders that he never saw before what Thomson 
shows him, and that he never yet has felt what Thomson impresses. His descriptions 
of extended scenes, and general effects, bring before us the whole magnificence of na- 
ture, whether pleasing or dreadful. The gaiety of Spring, the splendour of Summer, the 
tranquillity of Autumn, and the horror of Winter, take, in their turn, possession of the 
mind. The Poet leads us through the appearance of things, as they are successively 
varied by the vicissitudes of the year, and imparts to us so much of his own enthusiasm, 
that our thoughts expand with his imagery, and kindle with his sentiments." The 
censure which the same eminent critic passes upon Thomson's diction, is no less just 
and well founded, that " it, is too exuberant, and may sometimes be charged with filling 
the ear more than the mind." 



>'. 



482 DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. [LECT. XL. 

with a companion, and the houses in which they are successively 
entertained, of the vain man, the covetous man, and the good 
man, are pieces of very fine painting, touched with a light and 
delicate pencil, overcharged with no superfluous colouring, and 
conveying to us a lively idea of the objects. But of all the 
English Poems in the Descriptive Style, the richest and most 
remarkable are Milton's Allegro and Penseroso. The col- 
lection of gay images on the one hand, and of melancholy ones 
on the other, exhibited in these two small but inimitably fine 
Poems, are as exquisite as can be conceived. They are, indeed, 
the storehouse whence many succeeding Poets have enriched 
their descriptions of similar subjects ; and they alone are suf- 
ficient for illustrating the observations which I made concerning 
the proper selection of circumstances in Descriptive Writing. 
Take, for instance, the following passage from the Penseroso : 

I walk unseen 
On the dry, smooth-shaven green, 
To behold the wandering Moon, 
Riding near her highest noon, 
Like one that had been led astray 
Through the Heaven's wide pathless way, 
And oft as if her head she bowed, 
Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 
Oft, on a plat of rising ground, 
I hear the far-off curfew sound, 
Over some wide watered shore, 
Swinging slow with solemn roar : 
Or, if the air will not permit, 
Some still removed place will fit, 
Where glowing embers through the room 
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom ; 
Far from all resort of mirth, 
Save the cricket on the hearth, 
Or the bellman's drowsy charm, 
To bless the doors from nightly harm ; 
Or let my lamp at midnight hour, 
Be seen in some high lonely tower, 
Where I may outwatch the Bear 
With thrice great Hermes, or unsphere 
The spirit of Plato to unfold 
What worlds or what vast regions hold 
Th' immortal mind, that hath forsook 
Her mansion in his fleshy nook ; 
And of those Daemons that are found 
In fire, air, flood, or under ground. 

Here, there are no unmeaning general expressions ; all is 
particular ; all is picturesque ; nothing forced or exaggerated ; 
but a simple style, and a collection of strong expressive images, 
which are all of one class, and recall a number of similar ideas of 
the melancholy kind : particularly the walk by moonlight ; the 
sound of the curfew bell heard distant ; the dying embers in 
the chamber ; the bellman's call ; and the lamp seen at midnight 
in the high lonely tower. We may observe, too, the concise- 
ness of the Poet's manner. He does not rest long on one cir- 



LECT. XL.] DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. 483 

cumstance, or employ a great many words to describe it ; which 
always makes the impression faint and languid ; but placing 
it in one strong point of view, full and clear before the reader, 
he there leaves it. 

" From his shield and his helmet," says Homer, describing 
oue of his heroes in battle, " From his shield and his helmet, 
there sparkled an incessant blaze ; like the autumnal star, when 
it appears in its brightness from the waters of the ocean." This 
is short and lively: but when it comes into Mr. Pope's hand, 
it evaporates in three pompous lines, each of which repeats 
the same image in different words : 

High on his helm celestial lightnings play, 
His beamy shield emits a living ray ; 
Th' unwearied blaze incessant streams supplies 
Like the red star that fires th' autumnal skies. 

It is to be observed, in general, that, in describing solemn 
or great objects, the concise manner is, almost always, proper. 
Descriptions of gay and smiling scenes can bear to be more 
amplified and prolonged; as strength is not the predominant 
quality expected in these. But where a sublime or a pathetic 
impression is intended to be made energy is above all things 
required. The imagination ought then to be seized at once ; 
and it is far more deeply impressed by one strong and ardent 
image, than by the anxious minuteness of laboured illustration. 
— " His face was without form, and dark," says Ossian, describ- 
ing a ghost ; " the stars dim twinkling through his form ; thrice 
he sighed over the hero ; and thrice the winds of the night 
roared around." 

It deserves attention too, that in describing inanimate natural 
objects, the Poet, in order to enliven his description, ought 
always to mix living beings with them. The scenes of dead 
and still life are apt to pall upon us, if the Poet do not 
suggest sentiments, and introduce life and action into his 
description. This is well known to every Painter who is a 
master of his art. Seldom has any beautiful landscape been 
drawn, without some human being represented on the canvass, 
as beholding it, or on some account concerned in it. 

Hie gelidi fontes, hie mollia prata Lycori, 
Hie nemus ; hie ipso tecum consumerer sevo.* 

The touching part of these fine lines of Virgil's is the last, 
which sets before us the interest of two lovers in this rural 
scene. A long description of the "fontes" the " nemus? and 

* Here cooling fountains roll through flow'ry meads ; 
Here woods, Lycoris, lift their verdant heads ; 
Here could I wear my careless life away, 
And in thy arms insensibly decay. Virg. Eel. X. Warton. 



484 DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. [LECT. XL. 

the "prata" in the most poetical modern manner, would have 
been insipid without this stroke, which, in a few words, brings 
home to the heart all the beauties of the place: " hie ipso tecum 
consumerer gevo." It is a great beauty in Milton's Allegro, that 
it is all alive and full of persons. 

Every thing, as I before said, in description, should be as 
marked and particular as possible, in order to imprint on 
the mind a distinct and complete image. A hill, a river, or 
a lake, rises up more conspicuous to the fancy, when some par- 
ticular lake, or river, or hill, is specified, than when the terms 
are left general. Most of the ancient writers have been sensi- 
ble of the advantage which this gives to description. Thus, 
in that beautiful Pastoral Composition, the Song of Solomon, 
the images are commonly particularized by the objects to 
which they allude. " It is the rose of Sharon ; the lily of 
the valleys; the flock which feeds on Mount Gilead; the 
stream which comes from Mount Lebanon. Come with me 
from Lebanon, my Spouse ; look from the top of Amana, from 
the top of Shenir and Hermon, from the mountains of the 
leopards." Ch. iv. 8. So Horace : 

Quid dedicatum poscit Apollinem 
Vates 1 quid orat de patera novum 
Fundens liquorem ? non opimas 
Sardinae segetes feracis ; 
Non aestuosae grata Calabrias 
Armenta ; non aurum aut ebur Indicum, 
Non rura, quae Liris quieta 

Mordet aqu&, taciturnus amnis.* Lib. 1. Ode 31. 

Both Homer and Virgil are remarkable for the talent of 
Poetical Description. In Virgil's Second .ZEneid, where he de- 
scribes the burning and sacking of Troy, the particulars are 
so well selected and presented, that the reader finds himself 
in the midst of that scene of horror. The death of Priam, 
especially, may be singled out as a master-piece of description. 
All the circumstances of the aged monarch arraying himself 
in armour, when he finds the enemy making themselves masters 
of the city : his meeting with his family, who are taking shelter 
at an altar in the court of the palace, and their placing him in 
the midst of them ; his indignation when he beholds Pyrrhus 

* When at Apollo's hallowed shrine 
The poet hails the power divine, 
And here his first libation pours, 
What is the blessing he implores? 
He nor desires the swelling grain, 
That yellow o'er Sardinia's plain, 
Nor the fair herds that lowing feed 
On warm Calabria's flowery mead ; 
Nor ivory of spotless shine ; 
Nor gold forth flaming from the mine ; 
Nor the rich fields that Liris laves, 
And eats away with silent waves. Francis. 



LECT. XL.] DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. 485 

slaughtering one of his sons ; the feeble dart which he throws ; 
with Pyrrhus's brutal behaviour, and his manner of putting the 
old man to death, are painted in the most affecting manner, and 
with a masterly hand. All Homer's battles, and Milton's ac- 
count, both of Paradise and of the Infernal Regions, furnish 
many beautiful instances of Poetical Description. Ossian, too, 
paints in strong and lively colours, though he employs few cir- 
cumstances ; and his chief excellency lies in painting to the 
heart. One of his fullest Descriptions is, the following of the 
ruins of Balclutha : " I have seen the walls of Balclutha, but 
they were desolate. The fire had resounded within the halls : 
and the voice of the people is now heard no more. The stream 
of Clutha was removed from its place by the fall of the walls ; 
the thistle shook there its lonely head ; the moss whistled to the 
wind. The fox looked out at the window ; the rank grass waved 
round his head. Desolate is the dwelling of Moina. Silence is 
in the house of her fathers." Shakspeare cannot be omitted on 
this occasion, as singularly eminent for painting with the pencil 
of nature. Though it be in manners and characters that his 
chief excellency lies, yet his scenery also is often exquisite, and 
happily described by a single stroke, as in that fine line of 
the " Merchant of Venice," which conveys to the fancy as 
natural and beautiful an image as can possibly be exhibited in so 
few words: 

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank ! 
Here will we sit, &c. 

Much of the beauty of Descriptive Poetry depends upon a 
right choice of Epithets. Many Poets, it must be confessed, are 
too careless in this particular. Epithets are frequently brought 
in merely to complete the verse, or make the rhyme answer ; 
and hence they are so unmeaning and redundant ; expletive 
words only, which, in place of adding any thing to the descrip- 
tion, clog and enervate it. Virgil's " Liquidi fontes," and 
Horace's " Prata canis albicant pruinis," must, I am afraid, be 
assigned to this class ; for, to denote by an epithet that water is 
liquid, or that snow is white, is no better than mere tautology. 
Every epithet should either add a new idea to the word which it 
qualifies, or at least serve to raise and heighten its known 
signification. So in Milton, 

Who shall attempt with wandering feet 
The dark, unbottomed infinite abyss, 
And through the palpable obscure, find out 
His uncouth way 1 or spread his airy flight, 
Upborn with indefatigable wings, 
Over the vast abrupt ? B. II. 

The epithets employed here plainly add strength to the 
description, and assist the fancy in conceiving it ;-— the wander- 






486 DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. [LECT. XL. 

ing feet — the unbottomed abyss — the palpable obscure — the 
uncouth way — the indefatigable wing — serve to render the 
images more complete and distinct. But there are many general 
epithets, which, though they appear to raise the signification of 
the word to which they are joined, yet leave it so undetermined, 
and are now become so trite and beaten in poetical language, as 
to be perfectly insipid. Of this kind are " barbarous discord — 
hateful envy — mighty chiefs — bloody war — gloomy shades — 
direful scenes," and a thousand more of the same kind which we 
meet with occasionally in good Poets ; but with which Poets of 
inferior genius abound every where, as the great props of their 
affected sublimity. They give a sort of swell to the language, 
and raise it above the tone of prose ; but they serve not in the 
least to illustrate the object described ; on the contrary, they 
load the Style with a languid verbosity. 

Sometimes it is in the power of a Poet of genius, by one 
well-chosen epithet, to accomplish a description, and by means 
of a single word, to paint a whole scene to the fancy. We may 
remark this effect of an epithet in the following fine lines of 
Milton's Lycidas : 

Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep 

Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas ? 

For neither were ye playing on the steep, 

Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, 

Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, 

Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream. 

Among these wild scenes, " Deva's wizard stream," is admi- 
rably imaged ; by this one word, presenting to the fancy all the 
romantic ideas, of a river floating through a desolate country, 
with banks haunted by wizards and enchanters. Akin to this 
is an epithet which Horace gives to the river Hydaspes. A 
good man, says he, stands in need of no arms : 

Sive per Syrtes iter aestuosas, 
Sive facturus per inhospitalem 
Caucasum ; vel quae loca fabulosus 
Lam bit Hydaspes.* 

This epithet "fabulosus" one of the commentators on Horace 
has changed into "sabluosus" or sandy; substituting, by a 
strange want of taste, the common and trivial epithet of the 
sandy river, in place of that beautiful picture which the Poet 
gives us, by calling Hydaspes the Romantic River, or the scene 
of Adventures and Poetic Tales. 

Virgil has employed an epithet with great beauty and pro- 
priety, when accounting for Daedalus not having engraved the 
fortune of his son Icarus : 

* Whether through Lybia's burning sands 
Our journey leads, or Scythia's lands, 
Amidst th' inhospitable waste of snows, 
Or where the fabulous Hydaspes flows. Francis. 



LECT. XLI.] HEBREW POETRY. 487 

Bis conatus erat casus effirigere in auro, 

Bis patriae cecidere manus.* ifc^N. VI. 

These instances and observations may give some just idea of 
true poetical description. We have reason always to distrust an 
Author's descriptive talents, when we find him laborious and 
turgid, amassing common-place epithets and general expressions, 
to work up a high conception of some object, of which, after 
all, we can form but an indistinct idea. The best describers are 
simple and concise. They set before us such features of an , 
object, as, on the first view, strike and warm the fancy : they 
give us ideas which a Statuary or a Painter could lay hold of, 
and work after them : which is one of the strongest and most 
decisive trials of the real merit of Description. 



LECTUEE XLI. 

THE POETRT OF THE HEBREWS. 

Among the various kinds of Poetry, which we are, at present, 
employed in examining, the Ancient Hebrew Poetry, or that of 
the Scriptures, justly deserves a place. Viewing these sacred 
books in no higher light, than as they present to us the most 
ancient monuments of Poetry extant at this day in the world, 
they afford a curious object of Criticism. They display the 
taste of a remote age and country. They exhibit a species of 
Composition, very different from any other with which we are 
acquainted, and, at the same time, beautiful. Considered as 
Inspired Writings, they give rise to discussions of another kind. 
But it is our business, at present, to consider them not in a 
theological, but in a critical view : and it must needs give plea- 
sure, if we shall find the beauty and dignity of the Composition 
adequate to the weight and importance of the matter. Dr. Lowth's 
learned treatise, " De Sacra Poesi Hebrgeorum," ought to be 
perused by all who desire to become thoroughly acquainted with 
this, subject. It is a work exceedingly valuable, both for the 
elegance of its composition, and for the justness of the criticism 
which it contains. In this Lecture, as I cannot illustrate the 
subject with more benefit to the Reader, than by following the 

* Here hapless Icarus had found his part, 
Had not the father's grief restrained his art ; 
He twice essayed to cast his son in gold, 
Twice from his hand he dropped the forming mould. Dryden, 

In this translation the thought is justly given; but the beauty of the expression 
" patriae manus," which in the original conveys the thought with so much tenderness, 
is lost. 



488 THE POETRY [LECT. XLI, 

track of that ingenious Author, I shall make much use of his 
observations. 

I need not spend many words in showing, that among the 
books of the Old Testament there is such an apparent diversity 
in Style, as sufficiently discovers, which of them are to be con- 
sidered as Poetical, and which, as Prose Compositions. While 
the historical books, and legislative writings of Moses, are 
evidently Prosaic in the composition, the Book of Job> the 
Psalms of David, the Song of Solomon, the Lamentations of 
Jeremiah, a great part of the Prophetical Writings, and several 
passages scattered occasionally through the historical books, 
carrying the most plain and distinguishing marks of Poetical 
Writing. 

There is not the least reason for doubting, that originally 
these were written in verse, or some kind of measured numbers ; 
though as the ancient pronunciation of the Hebrew Language 
is now lost, we are not able to ascertain the nature of the 
Hebrew verse, or at most can ascertain it but imperfectly. 
Concerning this point there have been great controversies among 
learned men, which it is unnecessary to our present purpose to 
discuss. Taking the Old Testament in our own Translation, 
which is extremely literal, we find plain marks of many parts of 
the original being written in a measured Style ; and the " dis- 
jecta membra poetaa" often show themselves. Let any person 
read the Historical Introduction to the book of Job, contained 
in the first and second chapters, and then go on to Job's speech 
in the beginning of the third chapter, and he cannot avoid being 
sensible, that he passes all at once from the region of Prose to 
that of Poetry. Not only the poetical sentiments, and the 
figured Style, warn him of the change ; but the cadence of the 
sentence, and the arrangement of the words, are sensibly altered ; 
the change is as great as when he passes from reading Caesar's 
Commentaries, to read Virgil's ^Eneid. This is sufficient to 
show that the Sacred Scriptures contain, what must be called 
poetry in the strictest sense of that word ; and I shall after- 
wards show, that they contain instances of most of the different 
forms of Poetical Writing. It may be proper to remark, in 
passing, that hence arises a most invincible argument in honour 
of Poetry. No person can imagine that to be a frivolous and 
contemptible art, which has been employed by Writers under 
divine inspiration, and has been chosen as a proper channel for 
conveying to the world the knowledge of divine truth. 

From the earliest times, Music and Poetry were cultivated 
among the Hebrews. In the days of the Judges, mention is 
made of the schools or Colleges of the Prophets : where one 
part of the employment of the persons trained in such schools 
was, to sing the praises of God, accompanied with various 
instruments. In the first book of Samuel (chap. x. 7), we find, 
on a public occasion, a company of these Prophets coming down 



LECT. XLI.] OF THE HEBREWS. 489 

from the hill where their school was, " prophesying," it is said, 
" with the psaltery, tabret, and harp before them." But in the 
days of King David, Music and Poetry were carried to their 
greatest height. For the service of the tabernacle, he appointed 
four thousand Levites, divided into twenty-four courses, and 
marshalled under several leaders, whose sole business it was to 
sing Hymns, and to perform the instrumental music in the public 
worship. Asaph, Heman, and Jeduthun, were the chief directors 
of the Music ; and, from the titles of some Psalms, it would 
appear that they were also eminent composers of Hymns or 
Sacred Poems. In chapter xxv. of the first book of Chronicles, 
an account is given of David's institutions, relating to the 
Sacred Music and Poetry; which were certainly more costly, 
more splendid and magnificent, than ever obtained in the public 
service of any other nation. 

The general construction of the Hebrew Poetry is of a sin- 
gular nature, and peculiar to itself. It consists in dividing every 
period into correspondent, for the most part into equal members, 
which answer to one another, both in sense and sound. In the 
first member of the period a sentiment is expressed ; and in the 
second member, the same sentiment is amplified, or is repeated 
in different terms, or sometimes contrasted with its opposite ; 
but in such a manner that the same structure and nearly the 
same number of words is preserved. This is the general strain 
of all the Hebrew Poetry. Instances of it occur everywhere on 
opening the Old Testament. Thus, in Psalm xcvi., " Sing unto 
the Lord a new song — Sing unto the Lord, all the earth. Sing 
unto the Lord, and bless his name — show forth his salvation from 
day to day. Declare his glory among the heathen — his wonders 
among all the people. . For the Lord is great, and greatly to be 
praised — He is to be feared above all the Gods. Honour and 
majesty are before him — Strength and beauty are in his sanctu- 
ary." It is owing, in a great measure, to this form of Composi- 
tion that our version, though in Prose, retains so much of a 
poetical cast. For the version being strictly word for word after 
the original, the form and order of the original sentence are 
preserved ; which by this artificial structure, this regular alter- 
nation and correspondence of parts, makes the ear sensible of a 
departure from the common Style and Tone of Prose. 

The origin of this form of Poetical Composition among the 
Hebrews, is clearly to be deduced from the manner in which 
their Sacred Hymns were wont to be sung. They were accom- 
panied with music, and they were performed by choirs or bands 
of singers and musicians, who answered alternately to each other. 
When, for instance, one band began the Hymn thus : " the Lord 
reigneth, let the earth rejoice ; " the chorus, or semi-chorus, took 
up the corresponding versicle, " Let the multitude of the isles 
be glad thereof." — " Clouds and darkness are round about him," 
sung the one ; the other replied, "Judgment and righteousness 

L L 



490 THE POETRY [LECT. XLI. 

are the habitation of his throne." And in this manner their 
Poetry, when set to music, naturally divided itself into a succes- 
sion of strophes and antistrophes corresponding to each other ; 
whence, it is probable, the Antiphon, or Responsory, in the 
public religious service of so many Christian churches, derived 
its origin. 

We are expressly told, in the book of Ezra, that the Levites 
sung in this manner , " Alternatim," or by course (Ezra iii. 11.) ; 
and some of David's Psalms bear plain marks of their being com- 
posed in order to be thus performed. The twenty-fourth Psalm, in 
particular, which is thought to have been composed on the great 
and solemn occasion of the Ark of the Covenant being brought 
back to Mount Zion, must have had a noble effect when per- 
formed after this manner, as Dr. Lowth has illustrated it. The 
whole people are supposed to be attending the procession. The 
Levites and Singers, divided into their several courses, and 
accompanied with all their musical Instruments, led the way. 
After the Introduction to the Psalm, in the two first verses, 
when the procession begins to ascend the sacred Mount, the 
question is put, as by a semi-chorus, " Who shall ascend unto 
the hill of the Lord, and who shall stand in his holy place ? " The 
response is made by the full chorus with the greatest dignity : "He 
that hath clean hands and a pure heart ; who hath not lifted up 
his soul to vanity, nor sworn deceitfully." As the procession ap- 
proaches to the doors of the Tabernacle, the chorus, with all their 
instruments, join in this exclamation : " Lift up your heads, ye 
gates, and be ye lifted up, ye everlasting doors, and the King of 
Glory shall come in." Here the semi-chorus plainly breaks in, 
as with a lower voice, " Who is this King of Glory ? " and at 
the moment when the Ark is introduced into the Tabernacle, 
the response is made by the burst of the whole chorus : " The 
Lord, strong and mighty ; the Lord, mighty in battle." I take 
notice of this instance the rather, as it serves to show how much 
of the grace and magnificence of the Sacred Poems, as indeed 
of all Poems, depends upon our knowing the particular occa- 
sions for which they were composed, and the particular circum- 
stances to which they were adapted; and how much of this 
beauty must now be lost to us, through our imperfect ac- 
quaintance with many particulars of the Hebrew history, and 
Hebrew rites. 

The method of Composition which has been explained, by 
correspondent versicles being universally introduced into the 
Hymns or musical Poetry of the Jews, easily spread itself 
through their other Poetical Writings, which were not designed 
to be sung in alternate portions, and which therefore did not so 
much require this mode of Composition. But the mode became 
familiar to their ears, and carried with it a certain solemn majesty 
of Style, particularly suited to sacred subjects. Hence through- 
out the prophetical Writings, we find it prevailing as much as 



LECT. XLI.J OF THE HEBREWS, 491 

in the Psalms of David ; as, for instance, in the Prophet Isaiah 
(chap xl. 1.) " Arise, shine, for thy light is come, and the glory 
of the Lord is risen upon thee : For, lo ! darkness shall cover 
the earth, and gross darkness the people. But the Lord shall 
rise upon thee, and his glory shall be seen upon thee, and the 
Gentiles shall come to thy light, and kings to the brightness of 
thy rising." This form of writing is one of the great character- 
istics of the ancient Hebrew Poetry ; very different from, and 
even opposite to, the Style of the Greek and Roman Poets. 

Independently of this peculiar mode of construction, the Sacred 
Poetry is distinguished by the highest beauties of strong, con- 
cise, bold, and figurative expression. 

Conciseness and strength, are two of its most remarkable cha- 
racters. One might indeed at first imagine, that the practice of 
the Hebrew Poets, of always amplifying the same thought, by 
repetition or contrast, might tend to enfeeble their Style. But 
they conduct themselves so as not to produce this effect. Their 
sentences are always short. Pew superfluous words are used. 
The same thought is never dwelt upon long. To their concise- 
ness and sobriety of expression, their poetry is indebted for much 
of its sublimity ; and all Writers who attempt the sublime, might 
profit much, by imitating in this respect, the Style of the Old 
Testament. For, as I have formerly had occasion to show, 
nothing is so great an enemy to the Sublime, as prolixity or 
diffuseness. The mind is never so much affected by any great 
idea that is presented to it, as when it is struck all at once ; by 
attempting to prolong the impression, we at the same time 
weaken it. Most of the ancient original Poets of all nations are 
simple and concise. The superfluities and excrescences of Style 
were the result of imitation in after-times ; when Composition 
passed into inferior hands, and flowed from art and study, more 
than from native genius. 

No Writings whatever abound so much with the most bold 
and animated figures, as the Sacred Books. It is proper to dwell 
a little upon this article : as, through our early familiarity with 
these books, a familiarity too often with the sound of the words, 
rather than with their sense and meaning, beauties of Style 
escape us in the Scripture, which, in any other book, would draw 
particular attention. Metaphors, Comparisons, Allegories, and 
Personifications, are there particularly frequent. In order to do 
justice to these, it is necessary that we transport ourselves as 
much as we can into the land of Judea ; and place before our 
eyes that scenery, and those objects with which the Hebrew 
Writers were conversant. Some attention of this kind is requi- 
site, in order to relish the writings of any Poet of a foreign 
country, and a different age. For the imagery of every good 
Poet is copied from nature and real life ; if it were not so, it 
could not be lively ; and therefore, in order to enter into the 
propriety of his images, we must endeavour to place ourselves in 

L L 2 



492 THE POETRY [lECT. XLI. 

his situation. Now we shall find, that the Metaphors and Com- 
parisons of the Hebrew Poets present to us a very beautiful view 
of the natural objects of their own country, and of the arts and 
employments of their common life. 

Natural objects are in some measure common to them with 
Poets of all ages and countries. Light and darkness, trees and 
flowers, the forest and the cultivated field, suggest to them many 
beautiful figures. But, in order to relish their figures of this 
kind, we must take notice, that several of them arise from the 
particular circumstances of the land of Judea. During the sum- 
mer months, little or no rain falls throughout all that region. 
While the heats continued, the country was intolerably parched ; 
want of water was a great distress ; and a plentiful shower falling 
or a rivulet breaking forth, altered the whole face of nature, and 
introduced much higher ideas of refreshment and pleasure, than 
the like causes can suggest to us. Hence, to represent distress, 
such frequent allusions among them, " to a dry and thirsty land, 
where no water is ; " and hence, to describe a change from dis- 
tress to prosperity, their metaphors are founded on the falling of 
showers, and the bursting out of springs in the desert. Thus in 
Isaiah, — " The wilderness and solitary place shall be glad, and 
the desert shall rejoice and blossom as the rose. For in the 
wilderness shall waters break out, and streams in the desert ; 
and the parched ground shall become a pool, and the thirsty land, 
springs of water; in the habitation of dragons there shall be 
grass, with rushes and reeds." Chap. xxxv. 1, 6, 7. Images of 
this nature are very familiar to Isaiah, and occur in many parts 
of his book. 

Again, as Judea was a hilly country, it was, during the rainy 
months, exposed to frequent inundations by the rushing of tor- 
rents, which came down suddenly from the mountains, and carried 
every thing before them ; and Jordan, their only great river, 
annually overflowed its banks. Hence the frequent allusions to 
" the noise, and to the rushings of many waters ; " and hence 
great calamities so often compared to the overflowing torrent, 
which, in such a country, must have been images particularly 
striking ; " Deep calleth unto deep at the noise of thy water- 
spouts ; all thy waves and thy billows are gone over me." 
Psalm xlii. 7. 

The two most remarkable mountains of the country, were 
Lebanon and Carmel : the former noted for its height, and the 
woods of lofty cedars that covered it ; the latter, for its beauty 
and fertility, the richness of its vines and olives. Hence, with 
the greatest propriety, Lebanon is employed as an image of 
whatever is great, strong, or magnificent: Carmel of what is 
smiling and beautiful. " The glory of Lebanon," says N Isaiah, 
" shall be given to it, and the excellency of Carmel" (xxxv. 2.), 
Lebanon is often put metaphorically for the whole state or peo- 
ple of Israel, for the temple, for the king of Assyria ; Carmel, 



LECT. XLI.] OF THE HEBREWS. 493 

for the blessings of peace and prosperity. a His countenance is 
as Lebanon," says Solomon, speaking of the dignity of man's 
appearance ; but when he describes female beauty, " Thine head 
is like mount Carmel." Song v. 15. and vii. 5. 

It is farther to be remarked under this head, that in the 
images of the awful and terrible kind, with which the Sacred 
Poets abound, they plainly draw their descriptions from that 
violence of the elements, and those concussions of nature, with 
which their climate rendered them acquainted. Earthquakes 
were not unfrequent ; and the tempests of hail, thunder, and 
lightning, in Judsea and Arabia, accompanied with whirlwinds 
and darkness, far exceed any thing of that sort which happens in 
more temperate regions. Isaiah describes, with great majesty, the 
earth " reeling to and fro like a drunkard," and " removed like 
a cottage," (xxiv. 20). And in those circumstances of terror, 
with which an appearance of the Almighty is described in the 
18th Psalm, when his "pavilion round about him was darkness; 
when hailstones and coals of fire were his voice ; and when, at 
his rebuke, the channels of the waters are said to be seen, and 
the foundations of the hills discovered ;" though there may be 
some reference, as Dr. Lowth thinks, to the history of God's 
descent upon Mount Sinai, yet it seems more probable, that the 
figures were taken directly from those commotions of nature 
with which the Author was acquainted, and which suggested 
stronger and nobler images than what now occur to us. 

Besides the natural objects of their own country, we find the 
rites of their religion, and the arts and employments of their 
common life, frequently employed as grounds of imagery among 
the Hebrews. They were a people chiefly occupied with agri- 
culture and pasturage. These were arts held in high honour 
among them; not disdained by their patriarchs, kings, and pro- 
phets. Little addicted to commerce, separated from the rest of 
the world by their laws and their religion ; they were, during 
the better days of their state, strangers in a great measure to 
the refinements of luxury. Hence flowed, of course, the many 
allusions to pastoral life, to the "green pastures and the still 
waters," and to the care and watchfulness of a shepherd over his 
flock, which carry to this day so much beauty and tenderness in 
them, in the twenty-third Psalm, and in many other passages of 
the Poetical "Writings of Scripture. Hence, all the images 
founded upon rural employments, upon the wine-press, the 
threshing-floor, the stubble and the chaff. To disrelish all such 
images, is the effect of false delicacy. Homer is at least as 
frequent, and much more minute and particular in his similes, 
founded on what we now call low life ; but, in his management 
of them, far inferior to the Sacred Writers, who generally mix 
with their comparisons of this kind, somewhat of dignity and 
grandeur to ennoble them. What inexpressible grandeur does 
the following rural image in Isaiah, for instance, receive from 



494 THE POETRY [LECT. XLI. 

the intervention of the Deity : " The nations shall rush like the 
rushings of many waters ; but God sbaJl rebuke them, and they 
shall fly far off; and they shall be chased as the chaff of the 
mountain before the wind, and like the down of the thistle 
before the whirlwind." 

Figurative allusions too, we frequently find, to the rites and 
ceremonies of their religion ; to the legal distinctions of things 
clean and unclean ; to the mode of their Temple Service ; to the 
dress of their Priests, and to the most noted incidents recorded 
in their Sacred History; as to the destruction of Sodom, the 
descent of God upon Mount Sinai, and the miraculous passage 
of the Israelites through the Red Sea. The religion of the 
Hebrews included the whole of their laws, and civil constitution. 
It was full of splendid external rites, that occupied their senses ; 
it was connected with every part of their national history and 
establishment: and hence, all ideas founded on religion, pos- 
sessed in this nation a dignity and importance peculiar to them- 
selves, and were uncommonly fitted to impress the imagination. 

From all this it results, that the imagery of the Sacred Poets, 
is, in a high degree, expressive and natural ; it is copied directly 
from real objects, that were before their eyes ; it has this advan- 
tage, of being more complete within itself, more entirely founded 
on national ideas and manners, than that of most other Poets. 
In reading their works, we find ourselves continually in the land 
of Judasa. The palm-trees, and the cedars of Lebanon, are 
ever rising in our view. The face of their territory, the circum- 
stances of their climate, the manners of the people, and the 
august ceremonies of their religion, constantly pass under diffe- 
rent forms before us. 

The comparisons employed by the Sacred Poets are generally 
short, touching on one point only of resemblance, rather than 
branching out into little Episodes. In this respect, they have 
perhaps an advantage over the Greek and Roman Authors ; 
whose comparisons, by the length to which they are extended, 
sometimes interrupt the narration too much, and carry too visible 
marks of study and labour. Whereas, in the Hebrew Poets, 
they appear more like the glowings of a lively fancy, just glanc- 
ing aside to some resembling object, and presently returning to 
its track. Such is the following fine comparison, introduced to 
describe the happy influence of good government upon a people 
in what are called the last words of David, recorded in the 
second book of Samuel (xxiii. 3) : " He that ruleth over men 
must be just, ruling in the fear of God ; and he shall be as the 
light of the morning, when the sun riseth; even a morning 
without clouds ; as the tender grass springing out of the earth, 
by clear shining after rain." This is one of the most regular 
and formal comparisons in the Sacred Books. 

Allegory, likewise, is a figure frequently found in them. 
When formerly treating of this figure, I gave for an instance of 



LECT. XLI.] OF THE HEBKEWS. 495 

it, that remarkably fine and well-supported Allegory, which 
occurs in the eightieth Psalm, wherein the people of Israel are 
compared to a vine. Of Parables, which form a species of 
Allegory, the Prophetical Writings are full : and if to us they 
sometimes appear obscure, we must remember, that in those early 
times, it was universally the mode throughout all the eastern 
nations, to convey sacred truths under mysterious figures and 
representations. 

But the Poetical Figure, which beyond all others, elevates the 
Style of Scripture, and gives it a peculiar boldness and sub- 
limity, is Prosopopoeia or Personification. JSTo personification 
employed by any Poets, are so magnificent and striking as 
those of the Inspired Writers. On great occasions, they ani- 
mate every part of nature ; especially, when any appearance or 
operation of the Almighty is concerned. "Before him went 
the pestilence — the waters saw thee, O God, and were afraid — 
the mountains saw thee, and they trembled. The overflowing 
of the water passed by : — the deep uttered his voice, and lifted 
up his hands on high." When inquiry is made about the place 
of wisdom, Job introduces the "Deep, saying, it is not in me; 
and the sea saith, It is not in me. Destruction and death say, 
We have heard the fame thereof with our ears." That noted 
sublime passage in the Book of Isaiah, which describes the fall 
of the King of Assyria, is full of personified objects ; the fir 
trees and cedars of Lebanon breaking forth into exultation on 
the fall of the tyrant ; Hell from beneath, stirring up all the 
dead to meet him at his coming ; and the dead kings introduced 
as speaking, and joining in the triumph. In the same strain are 
these many lively and passionate apostrophes to cities and coun- 
tries, to persons and things, with which the Prophetical Writings 
every where abound. " O thou sword of the Lord ! how long 
will it be, ere thou be quiet ? put thyself up into the scabbard, 
rest and be still. How can it be quiet," (as the reply is instant- 
ly made,) " seeing the Lord hath given it a charge against 
Askelon, and the sea-shore ? there hath he appointed it." 
Jerem. xlvii. 6. 

In general, for it would carry us too far to enlarge upon all 
the instances, the Style of the Poetical Books of the Old Tes- 
tament is, beyond the Style of all other Poetical Works, feryid, 
bold, and animated. It is extremely different from that regular 
correct expression, to which our ears are accustomed in Modern 
Poetry. It is the burst of inspiration. The scenes are not 
coolly described, but represented as passing before our eyes. 
Every object, and every person, is addressed and spoken to, as if 
present; the transition is often abrupt; the connection often 
obscure ; the persons are often changed ; figures crowded and 
heaped upon one another. Bold subKmity, not correct elegance, 
is its character. We see the spirit of the Writer raised beyond 
himself, and labouring to find vent for ideas too mighty for his 
utterance. 






496 THE POETRY [LECT. XLI. 

After these remarks on the Poetry of the Scripture in gene- 
ral, I shall conclude this Dissertation, with a short account of 
the different kinds of Poetical Composition in the Sacred Books ; 
and of the distinguishing characters of some of the chief Writers. 

The several kinds of Poetical Composition which we find in 
Scripture, are chiefly the Didactic, Elegiac, Pastoral, and Ly- 
ric. Of the Didactic species of Poetry, the Book of Proverbs 
is the principal instance. The nine first Chapters of that Book 
are highly poetical, adorned with many distinguished graces, and 
figures of expression. At the tenth Chapter, the Stvle is sen- 
sibly altered, and descends into a lower strain, • which is con- 
tinued to the end ; retaining however that sententious, pointed 
manner, and that artful construction of period, which distinguish 
all the Hebrew Poetry. The Book of Ecclesiastes comes like- 
wise under this head; and some of the Psalms, as the 119th in 
particular. 

Of Elegiac Poetry, many very beautiful specimens occur in 
Scripture; such as the Lamentation of David over his friend 
Jonathan ; several passages in the Prophetical Books ; and 
several of David's Psalms, composed on occasions of distress 
and mourning. The forty-second Psalm in particular, is, in the 
highest degree, tender and plaintive. But the most regular and 
perfect Elegiac Composition in the Scripture, perhaps in the 
whole world, is the Book, entitled the Lamentations of Jere- 
miah. As the Prophet mourns in that book over the destruction 
of the Temple, and the Holy City, and the overthrow of the 
whole State, he assembles all the affecting images which a 
subject so melancholy could suggest. The Composition is 
uncommonly artificial. By turns, the Prophet, and the city 
Jerusalem, are introduced, as pouring forth their sorrows ; and 
in the end, a chorus of the people send up the most earnest and 
plaintive supplications to God. The lines of the original too, 
as may, in part, appear from our Translation, are longer than 
is usual in the other kinds of Hebrew Poetry ; and the melody 
is rendered thereby more flowing, and better adapted to the 
querimonious strain of Elegy. 

The Song of Solomon affords us a high exemplification of 
Pastoral Poetry. Considered with respect to its spiritual 
meaning, it is undoubtedly a mystical Allegory ; in its form, it 
is a Dramatic Pastoral, or a perpetual Dialogue between per- 
sonages in the character of Shepherds ; and, suitably to that 
form, it is full of rural and pastoral images, from beginning 
to end. 

Of Lyric Poetry, or that which is intended to be accompanied 
with Music, the Old Testament is full. Besides a great number 
of Hymns and Songs, which we find scattered in the Historical 
and Prophetical Books, such as the Song of Moses, the Song of 
Deborah, and many others of like nature, the whole Book of 
Psalms is to be considered as a collection of Sacred Odes. In 



LECT. XLI.] OF THE HEBREWS. 497 

these, we find the Ode exhibited in all the varieties of its form, 
and supported with the highest spirit of Lyric Poetry ; some- 
times sprightly, cheerful, and triumphant ; sometimes solemn 
and magnificent; sometimes tender and soft. From these 
instances, it clearly appears, that there are contained in the Holy 
Scriptures, full exemplifications of several of the chief kinds x>f 
Poetical Writing. 

Among the different Composers of the Sacred Books, there 
is an evident diversity of style and manner ; and to trace their 
different characters in this view, will contribute not a little 
towards our reading their writings with greater advantage. The 
most eminent of the Sacred Poets are, the Authors of the 
Books of Job, David, and Isaiah. As the Compositions of 
David are of the Lyric kind, there is a greater variety of style 
and manner in his works than in those of the other two. The 
manner in which, considered merely as a Poet, David chiefly 
excels, is the pleasing, the soft, and the tender. In his Psalms, 
there are many lofty and sublime passages ; but in strength of 
description, he yields to Job ; in sublimity, he yields to Isaiah. 
It is a sort of temperate grandeur, for which David is chiefly 
distinguished ; and to this he always soon returns, when, upon 
some occasions, he rises above it. The Psalms in which he 
touches us most, are those in which he describes the happiness 
of the righteous, or the goodness of God ; expresses the tender 
breathing of a devout mind, or sends up moving and affectionate 
supplications to Heaven. Isaiah is, without exception, the most 
sublime of all Poets. This is abundantly visible in our transla- 
tion ; and what is a material circumstance, none of the Books pf 
Scripture appear to have been more happily translated than the 
Writings of this Prophet. Majesty is his reigning character ; 
a majesty more commanding, and more uniformly supported, 
than is to be found among the rest of the Old Testament Poets. 
He possesses, indeed, a dignity and grandeur, both in his con- 
ceptions, and expressions which is altogether unparalleled, and 
peculiar to himself. There is more clearness and order too, and 
a more visible distribution of parts, in his Book, than in any 
other of the Prophetical Writings. 

When we compare him with the rest of the Poetical Pro- 
phets, we immediately see, in Jeremiah, a very different genius. 
Isaiah employs himself generally on magnificent subjects. Je- 
remiah seldom discovers any disposition to be sublime, and 
inclines always to the tender and elegiac. Ezekiel, in poetical 
grace and elegance, is much inferior to them both: but he is 
distinguished by a character of uncommon force and ardour. 
To use the elegant expressions of Bishop Lowth, with regard to 
this Prophet : " Est atrox, vehemens, tragicus ; in sensibus 
fervidus, acerbus, indignabundus ; in imaginibus, fecundus, truc- 
ulentus, et nonnunquam pene deformis ; in dictione grandiloquus, 
gravis, austerus, et interdum incultus ; frequens in repetitionibus, 



498 HEBREW POETRY. [LECT. XLI. 

non decoris aut gratiae causa, sed ex indignatione et violentia. 
Quicquid susceperit tractandum id seduld persequitur; in eo 
unice haeret defixus ; a proposito raro deflectens. In caateris, a 
plerisque vatibus fortasse superatus ; sed in eo genere, ad quod 
videtur a natura unice comparatus, nimirum, vi, pondere, impetu, 
granditate, nemo unquam eum superavit." The same learned 
Writer compares Isaiah to Homer, Jeremiah to Simonides, and 
Ezekiel to .ZEschylus. Most of the Book of Isaiah is strictly 
Poetical ; of Jeremiah and Ezekiel, not above one half can be 
held to belong to Poetry. Among the Minor Prophets, Hosea, 
Joel, Micah, Habakkuk, and especially Nahum, are distinguished 
for poetical spirit. In the Prophecies of Daniel and Jonah 
there is no Poetry. 

It only now remains to speak of the Book of Job, with which 
I shall conclude. It is known to be extremely ancient ; gene- 
rally reputed the most ancient of all the Poetical Books ; the 
Author uncertain. It is remarkable, that this Book has no 
connexion with the affairs, or manners of the Jews, or Hebrews. 
The scene is laid in the land of Uz, or Idumea, which is a part 
of Arabia ; and the Imagery employed is generally of a different 
kind from what I before showed to be peculiar to the Hebrew 
Poets. We meet with no allusions to the great events of 
Sacred History, to the religious rites of the Jews, to Lebanon 
or to Carmel, or any of the peculiarities of the climate of Judaea. 
We find few comparisons founded on rivers or torrents ; these 
were not familiar objects in Arabia. But the longest comparison 
that occurs in the Book, is to an object frequent and well known 
in that region, a brook that fails in the season of heat, and 
disappoints the expectation of the traveller. 

The Poetry, however, of the Book of Job is not only equal 
to that of any other of the Sacred Writings, but is superior to 
them all, except those of Isaiah alone. As Isaiah is the most 
sublime, David the most pleasing and tender, so Job is the most 
descriptive, of all the inspired Poets. A peculiar glow of fancy, 
and strength of description, characterize the Author. No 
Writer whatever abounds so much in Metaphors. He may be 
said not to describe but to render visible, whatever he treats of. 
A variety of instances might be given. Let us remark only 
those strong and lively colours, with which, in the following 
passages, taken from the eighteenth and twentieth chapters 
of his Book, he paints the condition of the wicked; observe 
how rapidly his figures rise before us ; and what a deep impres- 
sion, at the same time, they leave on the imagination. " Knowest 
thou not this of old since man was placed upon the earth, that 
the triumphing of the wicked is short, and the joy of the hypo- 
crite but for a moment ? Though his excellency mount up to 
the heavens, and his head reach the clouds, yet he shall perish 
for ever. He shall fly away as a dream, and shall not be found ; 
yea, he shall be chased away as the vision of the night. The 



LECT. XLII.] EPIC POETRY. 499 

eye also which saw him, shall see him no more ; they which 
have seen him shall say, where is he ? He shall suck the poison 
of asps ; the viper's tongue shall slay him. In the fulness of his 
sufficiency, he shall be in straits ; every hand shall come upon 
him. He shall flee from the iron weapon, and the bow of steel 
shall strike him through. All darkness shall be hid in his secret 
places. A fire not blown shall consume him. The Heaven 
shall reveal his iniquity, and the earth shall rise up against him. 
The increase of his house shall depart. His goods shall flow 
away in the day of wrath, The light of the wicked shall be 
put out ; the light shall be dark in his tabernacle. The steps of 
his strength shall be straitened, and his own counsel shall cast 
him down. For he is cast into a net by his own feet. He 
walketh upon a snare. Terrors shall make him afraid on every 
side ; and the robber shall prevail against him. Brimstone shall 
be scattered upon his habitation. His remembrance shall perish 
from the earth, and he shall have no name in the street. He 
shall be driven from light into darkness. They that come after 
him shall be astonished at his day. He shall drink of the wrath 
of the Almighty." 



LECTUKE XLII. 

EPIC POETRY. 



It now remains to treat of the two highest kinds of Poetical 
Writing, the Epic and the Dramatic. I begin with the Epic. 
This Lecture shall be employed upon the general principles of 
that species of Composition : after which I shall take a view of 
the character and genius of the most celebrated Epic Poets. 

The Epic Poem is universally allowed to be, of all poetical 
works, the most dignified, and at the same time, the most diffi- 
cult in execution. To contrive a story which shall please and 
interest all Readers, by being at once entertaining, important, 
and instructive ; to fill it with suitable incidents ; to enliven it 
with a variety of characters, and of descriptions ; and through- 
out a long work, to maintain that propriety of sentiment, and 
that elevation of Style, which the Epic Character requires, is 
unquestionably the highest effort of Poetical Genius. Hence 
so very few have succeeded in the attempt, that strict Critics 
will hardly allow any other Poems to bear the name of Epic, 
except the Iliad and the JEneid. 

There is no subject, it must be confessed, on which Critics 
have displayed more pedantry, than on this. By tedious Disqui- 



500 EPIC POETRY. [LECT. XLII. 

sitions, founded on a servile submission to authority, they have 
given such an air of mystery to a plain subject, as to render it- 
difficult for an ordinary Reader to conceive what an Epic Poem 
is. By Bossu's definition, it is a Discourse invented by art, 
purely to form the manners of men, by means of instructions 
disguised under the allegory of some important action, which is 
related in Verse. This definition would suit several of iEsop's 
Fables, if they were somewhat extended, and put into Verse ; 
and, accordingly, to illustrate his definition, the Critic draws a 
parallel, in form, between the construction of one of ^Esop's 
Fables, and the plan of Homer's Iliad. The first thing, says he, 
which either a Writer of Fables, or of Heroic Poems, does, is to 
choose some maxim or point of morality ; to inculcate which is 
to be the design of his work. Next, he invents a general story, 
or a series of facts, without any names, such as he judges will be 
most proper for illustrating his intended moral. Lastly, he par- 
ticularizes his story ; that is, if he be a Fabulist, he introduces 
his dog, his sheep, and his wolf ; or if he be an Epic Poet, he 
looks out in Ancient History for some proper names of heroes to 
give to his actors ; and then his plan is completed. 

This is one of the most frigid and absurd ideas that ever 
entered into the mind of a Critic. Homer, he says, saw the 
Grecians divided into a great number of independent States ; 
but very often obliged to unite into one body against their com- 
mon enemies. The most useful instruction which he could give 
them in this situation, was, that a misunderstanding between 
princes is the ruin of the common cause. In order to enforce 
this instruction, he contrived in his own mind, such a general 
story as this. Several princes join in a confederacy against their 
enemy. The prince, who was chosen as the leader of the rest, 
affronts one of the most valiant of the confederates, who there- 
upon withdraws himself, and refuses to take part in the common 
enterprise. Great misfortunes are the consequence of this divi- 
sion ; till, at length, both parties having suffered by the quarrel, 
the offended prince forgets his displeasure, and is reconciled to 
the leader ; and union being once restored, there ensues com- 
plete victory over their enemies. Upon this general plan of his 
Fable, adds Bossu, it was of no great consequence, whether, in 
filling it up, Homer had employed the names of beasts, like 
iEsop, or of men. He would have been equally instructive 
either way. But as he rather fancied to write of heroes, he 
pitched upon the war of Troy for the scene of his Fable ; he 
feigned such an action to happen there ; he gave the name of 
Agamemnon to the common leader; that of Achilles, to the 
offended prince ; and so the Iliad arose. 

He that can believe Homer to have proceeded in this manner, 
may believe any thing. One may pronounce, with great cer- 
tainty, that . an Author who should compose according to such a 
plan ; who should arrange all the subject, in his own mind, with 



LECT. XLII.J EPIC POETRY. 501 

a view to the moral, before he had ever thought of the per- 
sonages who were to be the Actors, might write, perhaps, 
useful Fables for children ; but as to an Epic Poem, if he had 
ventured to think of one, it would be such as would find few 
readers. No person of any taste can entertain a doubt, that the 
first objects which strike an Epic Poet are, the Hero whom he 
is to celebrate, and the Action, or Story, which is to be the 
ground- work of his Poem. He does not sit down, like a Philo- 
sopher, to form the plan of a Treatise of Morality. His genius 
is fired by some great enterprise, which, to him, appears noble 
and interesting; and which, therefore, he pitches upon as worthy 
of being celebrated in the highest strain of Poetry. There is no 
subject of this kind, but will always afford some general moral 
instruction, arising from it naturally. The instruction which 
Bossu points out, is certainly suggested by the Iliad ; and there 
is another which arises as naturally, and may just as well be 
be assigned for the moral of that Poem ; namely, that Provi- 
dence avenges those who have suffered injustice ; but that when 
they allow their resentment to carry them too far, it brings 
misfortunes on themselves. The subject of the poem is the 
wrath of Achilles, caused by the injustice of Agamemnon. 
Jupiter avenges Achilles, by giving success to the Trojans 
against Agamemnon ; but by continuing obstinate in his resent- 
ment, Achilles loses his beloved friend Patroclus. 

The plain account of the nature of an Epic Poem is, the 
recital of some illustrious enterprise in a Poetical Form. This 
is as exact a definition as there is any occasion for on this sub- 
ject. It comprehends several other Poems besides the Iliad of 
Homer, the uEneid of Yirgil, and the Jerusalem of Tasso ; which 
are, perhaps, the three most regular and complete Epic Works 
that ever were composed. But to exclude all Poems from the 
Epic Class, which are not formed exactly upon the same model 
as these, is the pedantry of Criticism. We can give exact defi- 
nitions and descriptions of minerals, plants, and animals : and 
can arrange them with precision, under the different classes to 
which they belong, because Nature affords a visible unvarying 
standard, to which we refer them. But with regard to works of 
taste and imagination, where Nature has fixed no standard, but 
leaves scope for beauties of many different kinds, it is absurd to 
attempt defining, and limiting them, with the same precision. 
Criticism, when employed in such attempts, degenerates into 
trifling questions about words and names only. I therefore have 
no scruple to class such Poems, as Milton's Paradise Lost, 
Lucan's Pharsalia, Statius's Thebaid, Ossian's Fingal and 
Temora, Camoens' Lusiad, Voltaire's Henriade, Cambray's 
Telemachus, Glover's Leonidas, Wilkie's Epigoniad, under the 
same species of composition with the Iliad and the ^Eneid; 
though some of them approach much nearer than others to the 
perfection of these celebrated Works. They are, undoubtedly, 

■ 



502 EPIC POETKY. [LECT. XLII. 

all Epic ; that is, poetical recitals of great adventures ; which is 
all that is meant by this denomination of Poetry. 

Though I cannot, by any means, allow that it is the essence 
of an Epic Poem to be wholly an Allegory, or a Fable contrived 
to illustrate some moral truth, yet it is certain that no Poetry is 
of a more moral nature than this. Its effect in promoting 
virtue, is not to be measured by any one maxim, or instruction, 
which results from the whole history, like the moral of one of 
.ZEsop's Fables. This is a poor and trivial view of the advantage 
to be derived from perusing a long Epic Work, that, at the end, 
we shall be able to gather from it some common-place morality. 
Its effect arises from the impression which the parts of the 
Poem separately, as well as the whole taken together, make 
upon the mind of the Reader : from the great examples which it 
sets before us, and the high sentiments with which it warms our 
hearts. The end which it proposes, is to extend our ideas of 
human perfection : or, in other words, to excite admiration. 
Now this can be accomplished only by proper representations of 
heroic deeds, and virtuous characters. For high virtue is the 
object, which all mankind are formed to admire ; and, therefore, 
Epic Poems are, and must be, favourable to the cause of virtue. 
Valour, Truth, Justice, Fidelity, Friendship, Piety, Magna- 
nimity, are the objects which, in the course of such Compositions, 
are presented to our minds, under the most splendid and honour- 
able colours. In behalf of virtuous personages, our affections 
are engaged ; in their designs and their distresses we are 
interested ; the generous and public affections are awakened ; 
the mind is purified from sensual and mean pursuits, and accus- 
tomed to take part in great, heroic enterprises. It is, indeed, 
no small testimony in honour of virtue, that several of the most 
refined and elegant entertainments of mankind, such as that 
species of Poetical Composition which we now consider, must be 
grounded on moral sentiments and impressions. This is a testi- 
mony of such weight, that, were it in the power of sceptical 
Philosophers, to weaken the force of those reasoniirgs which 
establish the essential distinctions between Vice and Virtue, the 
writings of Epic Poets alone were sufficient to refute their false 
Philosophy ; showing by that appeal which they constantly make 
to the feelings of mankind in favour of virtue, that the founda- 
tions of it are laid deep and strong in human nature. 

The general strain and spirit of Epic Composition, sufficiently 
mark its distinction from the other kinds of Poetry. In Pastoral 
Writing, the reigning idea is innocence and tranquillity. Com- 
passion is the great object of Tragedy; Ridicule, the province of 
Comedy. The predominant character of the Epic is, Admiration 
excited by heroic actions. It is sufficiently distinguished from 
History, both by its poetical form, and the liberty of fiction 
which it assumes. It is a more calm composition than Tragedy. 
It admits, nay requires, the pathetic and the violent, on particular 






LECT. XLII.] EPIC POETRY. 503 

occasions; but the pathetic is not expected to be its general 
character. It requires, more than any other species of Poetry, 
a grave, equal, and supported dignity. It takes in a greater 
compass of time and action, than Dramatic Writing admits; 
and thereby allows a more full display of characters. Dramatic 
Writings display characters chiefly by means of sentiments and 
passions ; Epic Poetry, chiefly by means of actions. The emo- 
tions, therefore, which it raises, are not so violent, but they are 
more prolonged. These are the general characteristics of this 
species of Composition. But, in order to give a more particular 
and critical view of it, let us consider the Epic Poem under three 
heads ; first, with respect to the Subject, or Action ; secondly, 
with respect to the Actors, or Characters ; and lastly, with res- 
pect to the Narration of the Poet. 

The action* or subject of the Epic Poem, must have three 
properties ; it must be one ; it must be great ; it must be 
interesting. 

First, it must be one Action, or Enterprise, which the Poet 
chooses for his subject. I have frequently had occasion to remark 
the importance of unity, in many kinds of Composition, in order 
to make a full and strong impression upon the mind. With the 
highest reason, Aristotle insists upon this, as essential to Epic 
Poetry ; and it is, indeed, the most material of all his rules res- 
pecting it. For it is certain, that, in the recital of heroic adven- 
tures, several scattered and independent facts can never affect a 
reader so deeply, nor engage his attention so strongly, as a tale 
that is one and connected, where the several incidents hang upon 
one another, and are all made to conspire for the accomplishment 
of one end. In a regular Epic, the more sensible this unity is 
rendered to the imagination, the better will be the effect ; and 
for this reason, as Aristotle has observed, it is not sufficient for 
the Poet to confine himself to the Actions of one man, or to those 
which happened during a certain period of time ; but the unity 
must lie in the subject itself, and arise from all the parts com- 
bining into one whole. 

In all the great Epic Poems, unity of action is sufficiently 
apparent. Virgil, for instance, has chosen for his subject, the 
establishment of .ZEneas in Italy. From the beginning to the 
end of the Poem, this object is ever in our view, and links all the 
parts of it together with full connection. The unity of the 
Odyssey is of the same nature ; the return and re-establishment 
of Ulysses in his own country. The subject of Tasso, is the 
recovery of Jerusalem from the Infidels ; that of Milton, the 
expulsion of our first parents from Paradise ; and both of them 
are unexceptionable in the unity of the Story. The professed 
subject of the Iliad, is the Anger of Achilles, with the conse- 
quences which it produced. The Greeks carry on many unsuc- 
cessful engagements against the Trojans, as long as they are 
deprived of the assistance of Achilles. Upon his being appeased 



504 EPIC POETRY. [*LECT. XLII. 

and reconciled to Agamemnon, victory follows, and the Poem 
closes. It must be owned, however, that the Unity, or con- 
necting principle, is not quite so sensible to imagination here 
as in the .ZEneid. For, throughout many books of the Iliad, 
Achilles is out of sight ; he is lost in inaction ; and the fancy 
terminates on no other object, than the success of the two armies 
whom we see contending in war. 

The unity of the Epic Action is not to be so strictly inter- 
preted, as if it excluded all Episodes, or subordinate actions. It 
is necessary to observe here, that the term Episode is employed 
by Aristotle in a different sense from what we now give to it. 
It was a term originally applied to Dramatic Poetry, and thence 
transferred to Epic ; and by Episodes, in an Epic Poem, it should 
seem that Aristotle understood the extension of the general Fable, 
or plan of the Poem, into all its circumstances. What his mean- 
ing was, is, indeed, not very clear ; and this obscurity has occa- 
sioned much altercation among Critical Writers. Bossu, in 
particular, is so perplexed upon this subject, as to be almost un- 
intelligible. But, dismissing so fruitless a controversy, what we 
now understand by Episodes, are certain actions, or incidents, 
introduced into the narration, connected with the principal 
action, yet not of such importance as to destroy, if they had 
been omitted, the main subject of the Poem. Of this nature 
are the interview of Hector with Andromache, in the Iliad ; the 
story of Cacus, and that of Nisus and Euryalus, in the -ZEneid ; 
the adventures of Tancred with Erminia and Clorinda, in the 
Jerusalem ; and the prospects of his descendants exhibited to 
Adam, in the last books of Paradise Lost. 

Such Episodes as these, are not only permitted to an Epic 
Poet ; but, provided they be properly executed, are great orna- 
ments to his work. The rules regarding them are the following : 

First, They must be naturally introduced ; they must have a 
sufficient connection with the subject of the Poem ; they must 
seem inferior parts that belong to it ; not mere appendages stuck 
to it. The Episode of Olinda and Sophronia, in the second book 
of Tasso's Jerusalem, is faulty, by transgressing this rule. It is 
too much detached from the rest of the work ; and being intro- 
duced so near the opening of the Poem, misleads the reader into 
an expectation, that it is to be of some future consequence ; 
whereas it proves to be connected with nothing that follows. 
In proportion as any Episode is slightly related to the main 
subject, it should always be the shorter. The passion of Dido 
in the JEneid, and the snares of Armida in the Jerusalem, which 
are expanded so fully in these Poems, cannot with propriety be 
called Episodes. They are constituent parts of the work, and 
form a considerable share of the intrigue of the Poem. 

In the next place, Episodes ought to present to us objects of 
a different kind, from those which go before, and those which 
follow, in the course of the Poem. For it is principally for the 



LECT. XLII.] EPIC POETRY. 505 

sake of variety, that Episodes are introduced into an Epic Com- 
position. In so long a work, they tend to diversify the subject, 
and to relieve the Reader, by shifting the scene. In the midst 
of combats, therefore, an Episode of the martial kind would be 
out of place ; whereas Hector's visit to Andromache in the Iliad, 
and Erminia's adventure with the Shepherd in the seventh book 
of the Jerusalem, afford us a well-judged and pleasing retreat 
from camps and battles. 

Lastly, As an Episode is a professed embellishment, it ought 
to be particularly elegant and well-finished ; and, accordingly, it 
is, for the most part, in pieces of this kind, that poets put forth 
their strength. The Episodes of Teribazus and Ariana, in 
Leonidas, and of the death of Hercules, in the Epigoniad, are the 
two greatest beauties in these Poems. 

The unity of the Epic Action necessarily supposes, that the 
action be entire and complete ; that is, as Aristotle well expresses 
it, that it have a beginning, a middle, and an end. Either by 
relating the whole, in his own person, or by introducing some 
of his Actors to relate what had passed before the opening of 
the Poem, the Author must always contrive to give us full 
information of every thing that belongs to his subject; he 
must not leave our curiosity, in any article, ungratified ; he 
must bring us precisely to the accomplishment of his plan ; and 
then conclude. 

The second property of the Epic Action, is, that it be great ; 
that it have sufficient splendour and importance, both to fix our 
attention, and to justify the magnificent apparatus which the 
Poet bestows upon it. This is so evidently requisite as not to 
require illustration ; and indeed hardly any who have attempted 
Epic Poetry, have failed in choosing some subject sufficiently 
important, either by the nature of the action, or by the fame of 
the personages concerned in it. 

It contributes to the grandeur of the Epic Subject, that it be 
not of a modern date, nor fall within any period of history with 
which we are intimately acquainted. Both Lucan and Voltaire 
have, in the choice of their subjects, transgressed this rule, and 
they have, upon that account, succeeded worse. Antiquity is 
favourable to those high and august ideas which Epic Poetry is 
designed to raise. It tends to aggrandize, in our imagination, 
both persons and events ; and what is still more material, it 
allows the Poet the liberty of adorning his subject by means of 
fiction. Whereas, as soon as he comes within the verge of real 
and authenticated history, this liberty is abridged. He must 
either confine himself wholly, as Lucan has done, to strict his- 
torical truth, at the expense of rendering his story jejune ; or, 
if he goes beyond it, like Voltaire in his Henriade, this disad- 
vantage follows, that, in well-known events, the true and the 
fictitious parts of the plan do not naturally mingle, and incor- 
porate with each other. These observations cannot be applied 
* MM 



506 EPIC POETRY. [LECT. XLII. 

to Dramatic Writing ; where the personages are exhibited to 
us, not so much that we may admire, as that we may love or 
pity them. Such passions are much more consistent with the 
familiar historical knowledge of the persons who are to be the 
objects of them ; and even require them to be displayed in the 
light, and with the failings of ordinary men. Modern, and well- 
known history, therefore, may furnish very proper materials for 
Tragedy. But for Epic Poetry, where heroism is the ground- 
work and where the object in view is to excite admiration, ancient 
or traditionary history is assuredly the safest region. There, the 
author may lay hold on names, and characters, and events, not 
wholly unknown, on which to build his Story ; while, at the 
same time, by reason of the distance of the period, or of the 
remoteness of the scene, sufficient licence is left him for fiction 
and invention. 

The third property required in the Epic Poem, is, that it be 
interesting. It is not sufficient for this purpose that it be great. 
For deeds of mere valour, how heroic soever, may prove cold and 
tiresome. Much will depend on the happy choice of some sub- 
ject, which shall, by its nature, interest the Public ; as when the 
Poet selects for his Hero, one who is the founder, or the deliverer, 
or the favourite of his nation ; or when he writes of achieve- 
ments that have been highly celebrated, or have been connected 
with important consequences to any public cause. Most of the 
great Epic Poems are abundantly fortunate in this respect, and 
must have been very interesting to those ages and countries in 
which they were composed. 

But the chief circumstance which renders an Epic Poem inter- 
esting, and which tends to interest, not one age or country alone, 
but all readers, is the skilful conduct of the Author in the 
management of his subject. He must so contrive his plan, as 
that it shall comprehend many affecting incidents. He must not 
dazzle us perpetually with valiant achievements ; for all readers 
tire of constant fighting, and battles ; but he must study to touch 
our hearts. He may sometimes be awful and august ; he must 
often be tender and pathetic ; he must give us gentle and pleasing 
scenes of love, friendship, and affection. The more an Epic Poem 
abounds with situations which awaken the feelings of humanity, 
the more interesting it is ; and these form, always, the favourite 
passages of the work. I know no Epic Poets so happy in this 
respect as Virgil and Tasso. 

Much, too, depends on the characters of the Heroes, for ren- 
dering the Poem interesting ; that they be such as shall strongly 
attach the readers, and make them take part in the dangers 
which the Heroes encounter. These dangers, or obstacles, form 
what is called the Nodus, or the Intrigue of the Epic Poem ; in 
the judicious conduct of which consists much of the Poet's art. 
He must rouse our attention, by a prospect of the difficulties 
which seem to threaten disappointment to the enterprise of his 



LECT. XLII.] EPIC POETRY. 507 

favourite personages ; he must make these difficulties grow and 
thicken upon us by degrees ; till, after having kept us, for some 
time, in a state of agitation and suspense, he paves the way, by a 
proper preparation of incidents, for the winding up of the plot in 
a natural and probable manner, It is plain, that every tale 
which is designed to engage attention, must be conducted on a 
plan of this sort. 

A Question has been moved, whether the nature of the Epic 
Poem does not require that it should always end successfully ? 
Most Critics are inclined to think, that a successful issue is the 
most proper ; and they appear to have reason on their side. 
An unhappy conclusion depresses the mind, and is opposite to 
the elevating emotions which belong to this species of Poetry. 
Terror and compassion are the proper subjects of Tragedy ; but 
as the Epic Poem is of larger compass and extent, it were 
too much, if, after the difficulties and troubles which commonly 
abound in the progress of the Poem, the Author should bring 
them all at last to an unfortunate issue. Accordingly, the 
general practice of Epic Poets is on the side of a prosperous 
conclusion; not, however, without some exceptions. For 
two Authors of great name, Lucan and Milton, have held a 
contrary course; the one concluding with the subversion of 
the Roman liberty; the other, with the expulsion of man from 
Paradise, 

With regard to the time or duration of the Epic Action, 
no precise boundaries can be ascertained. A considerable 
extent is always allowed to it, as it does not necessarily depend 
on those violent passions which can be supposed to have only 
a short continuance. The Iliad, which is formed upon the 
anger of Achilles, has, with propriety, the shortest duration 
of any of the great Epic Poems. According to Bossu, the 
action lasts no longer than forty -seven days. The action of 
the Odyssey, computed from the taking of Troy to the Peace 
of Ithaca, extends to eight years and a half; and the action 
of the .ZEneid, computed in the same way, from the taking 
of Troy to the death of Turnus, includes about six years. But 
if we measure the period only of the Poet's own narration, or 
compute from the time in which the Hero makes his first 
appearance, till the conclusion, the duration of both these last 
Poems is brought within a much smaller compass. The 
Odyssey, beginning with Ulysses in the Island of Calypso, 
comprehends fifty-eight days only ; and the -ZEneid, begin- 
ning with the storm, which throws .ZEneas upon the coast 
of Africa, is reckoned to include, at the most, a year and some 
months. 

Having thus treated of the Epic Action, on the Subject 
of the Poem, I proceed next to make some observations on 
the Actors or Personages. 

As it is the business of an Epic Poet to copy after nature 

m m 2 



508 EPIC POETKY. [LECT. XLII. 

and to form a probable interesting tale, he must study to give 
all his personages proper and well-supported characters, such 
as display the features of human nature. This is what Aris- 
totle calls, giving manners to the Poem. It is by no means 
necessary, that all his actors be morally good ; imperfect, nay, 
vicious characters may find a proper place ; though the nature 
of Epic Poetry seems to require, that the principal figures 
exhibited should be such as tend to raise admiration and love, 
rather than hatred or contempt. But whatever the character 
be which a Poet gives to any of his actors, he must take care to 
preserve it uniform, and consistent with itself. Every thing 
which that person says, or does, must be suited to it, and must 
serve to distinguish him from any other. 

Poetic characters may be divided into two kinds, general 
and particular. General characters are, such as wise, brave, 
virtuous, without any farther distinction. Particular characters 
express the species of bravery, of wisdom, of virtue, for which 
any one is eminent. They exhibit the peculiar features which 
distinguish one individual from another, which mark the differ- 
ence of the same moral quality in different men, according as it 
is combined with other dispositions in their temper. In draw- 
ing such particular characters, genius is chiefly exerted. How 
far each of the three great Epic Poets have distinguished them- 
selves in this part of Composition, I shall have occasion after- 
wards to show, when I come to make remarks upon their works. 
It is sufficient now to mention, that it is in this part Homer 
has principally excelled ; Tasso has come the nearest to Homer ; 
and Virgil has been the most deficient. 

It has been the practice of all Epic Poets, to select some one 
personage, whom they distinguish above all the rest, and make 
the hero of the tale, This is considered as essential to Epic 
Composition, and is attended with several advantages. It 
renders the unity of the subject more sensible, when there 
is one principal figure, to which, as to a centre, all the rest 
refer. It tends to interest us more in the enterprise which is 
carried on; and it gives the Poet an opportunity of exerting 
his talents for adorning and displaying one character, with 
peculiar splendour. It has been asked, who then is the hero 
of Paradise Lost ? The Devil, it has been answered by some 
Critics ; and, in consequence of this idea, much ridicule and 
censure has been thrown upon Milton. But they have mistaken 
that Author's intention, by proceeding upon a supposition, that, 
in the conclusion of the Poem, the hero must needs be trium- 
phant. Whereas Milton followed a different plan, and has 
given a tragic conclusion to a Poem, otherwise Epic in its form. 
For Adam is undoubtedly his hero ; that is, the capital and 
most interesting figure in his Poem. 

Besides human actors, there are personages of another kind, 
that usually occupy no small place in Epic Poetry ; I mean the 



LECT. XLII.] EPIC POETRY. 509 

gods, or supernatural beings. This brings us to the consideration 
of what is called the Machinery of the Epic Poem ; the most nice 
and difficult] part of the subject. Critics appear to me to have 
gone to extremes on both sides. Almost all the French Critics 
decide in favour of Machinery, as essential to the constitution 
of an Epic Poem. They quote that sentence of Petronius 
Arbiter, as if it were an oracle, " per ambages, Deorumque 
ministeria, precipitandus est liber spiritus," and hold, that though 
a Poem had every other requisite that could be demanded, yet 
it could not be ranked in the Epic class, unless the main action 
was carried on by the intervention of the gods. This decision 
seems to be founded on no principle of reason whatever, unless 
a superstitious reverence for the practice of Homer and Virgil. 
These poets very properly embellished their story by the tradi- 
tional tales and popular legends of their own country ; according 
to which all the great transactions of the heroic times were in- 
termixed with the fables of their deities. But does it thence 
follow, that in other countries, and other ages, where there 
is not the like advantage of current superstition, and popular 
credulity, Epic Poetry must be wholly confined to antiquated 
fictions, and fairy tales ? Lucan has composed a very spirited 
Poem, certainly of the Epic kind, where neither gods nor super- 
natural beings are at all employed. The Author of Leonidas 
has made an attempt of the same kind, not without success ; and 
beyond doubt, wherever a Poet gives us a regular heroic story, 
well connected in its parts, adorned with characters, and sup~ 
ported with proper dignity and elevation, though his agents be 
every one of them human, he has fulfilled the chief requisites 
of this sort of Composition, and has a just title to be classed with 
Epic Writers. 

But though I cannot admit that Machinery is necessary or 
essential to the Epic plan, neither can I agree with some late 
Critics of considerable name, who are for excluding it totally, as 
inconsistent with that probability and impression of reality 
which they think should reign in this kind of Writing.* Man- 
kind do not consider Poetical Writings with so philosophical 
an eye. They seek entertainment from them ; and for the bulk 
of readers, indeed for almost all men, the marvellous has a great 
charm. It gratifies and fills the imagination ; and gives room 
for many a striking and sublime description. In Epic Poetry, 
in particular, where admiration and lofty ideas are supposed to 
reign, the marvellous and supernatural find, if any where, their 
proper place. They both enable the Poet to aggrandize his 
subject, by means of those august and solemn objects which 
religion introduces into it ; and they allow him to enlarge and 
diversify his plan, by comprehending within it heaven, and 
earth, and hell, men and invisible beings, and the whole circle of 
the Universe. 

* Se« Elem. of Criticism, ch. 22. 



510 EPIC POETRY. [LECT. XLII. 

At the same time, in the use of this supernatural Machinery, 
it becomes a Poet to be temperate and prudent. He is not 
at liberty to invent what system of the marvellous he pleases. 
It must always have some foundation in popular belief. He 
must avail himself in a decent manner, either of the religious 
faith, or the superstitious credulity of the country wherein 
he lives, or of which he writes, so as to give an air of probability 
to the events which are most contrary to the common course 
of Nature. Whatever Machinery he employs, he must take 
care not to overload us with it ; not to withdraw human actions 
and manners too much from view, nor to obscure them under 
a cloud of incredible fictions. He must always remember that 
his chief business is to relate to men, the actions and the exploits 
of men ; that it is by these principally he is to interest us, and 
to touch our hearts; and that if probability be altogether 
banished from his work, it can never make a deep or a lasting 
impression. Indeed, I know nothing more difficult in Epic 
Poetry, than to adjust properly the mixture of the marvellous 
with the probable ; so as to gratify and amuse us with the 
one, without sacrificing the other. I need hardly observe, 
that these observations affect not the conduct of Milton's 
work ; whose plan being altogether theological, his supernatural 
beings form not the machinery, but are the principal actors in the 
Poem. 

With regard to Allegorical Personages, Fame, Discord, Love, 
and the like, it may be safely pronounced, that they form the 
worst machinery of any. In description they are sometimes 
allowable, and may serve for embellishment ; but they should 
never be permitted to bear any share in the action of the Poem. 
For being plain and declared fictions, mere names of general 
ideas, to which even fancy cannot attribute any existence as 
persons, if they are introduced as mingling with human actors, 
an intolerable confusion of shadows and realities arise, and all 
consistency of action is utterly destroyed. 

In the narration of the Poet, which is the last head that re- 
mains to be considered, it is not material, whether he relate the 
whole story in his own character, or introduce some of his per- 
sonages to relate any part of the action that had passed before 
the Poem opens. Homer follows the one method in his Iliad, 
and the other in his Odyssey. Virgil has, in this respect, imi- 
tated the conduct of the Odyssey ; Tasso that of the Iliad. 
The chief advantage which arises from any of the actors being 
employed to relate part of the story is, that it allows the Poet, 
if he chooses it, to open with some interesting situation of 
affairs, informing us afterwards of what had passed before that 
period ; and gives him the greater liberty of spreading out such 
parts of the subject as he is inclined to dwell upon in person, 
and of comprehending the rest within a short recital. Where 
the subject is of great extent, and comprehends the transactions 



LECT. XLIII.] EPIC POETRY. 511 

of several years, as in the Odyssey and the -ZEneid, this method, 
therefore, seems preferable. When the subject is of smaller 
compass, and shorter duration, as in the Iliad and the Jerusalem, 
the Poet may, without disadvantage, relate the whole in his own 
person. 

In the proposition of the subject, the invocation of the Muse, 
and other ceremonies of the Introduction, Poets may vary at 
their pleasure. It is perfectly trifling to make these little for- 
malities the object of precise rule, any farther, than that the 
subject of the work should always be clearly proposed, and with- 
out affected or unsuitable pomp. For according to Horace's 
noted rule, no Introduction should ever set out too high, or pro- 
mise too much, lest the Author should not fulfil the expectations 
he has raised. 

What is of most importance in the tenor of the narration is, 
that it be perspicuous, animated, and enriched with all the 
beauties of Poetry. No sort of Composition requires more 
strength, dignity, and fire, than the Epic Poem. It is the region 
within which we look for every thing that is sublime in descrip- 
tion, tender in sentiment, and bold and lively in expression ; and 
therefore, though an Author's plan should be faultless, and his 
story ever so well conducted, yet if he be feeble or flat in Style, 
destitute of affecting scenes, and deficient in poetical colouring, 
he can have no suceess. The ornaments which Epic Poetry ad- 
mits, must all be of the grave and chaste kind. Nothing that is 
loose, ludicrous, or affected, finds any place there. All the 
objects which it presents ought to be either great, or tender, or 
pleasing. Descriptions of disgusting or shocking objects should 
as much as possible be avoided ; and therefore the fable of the 
Harpies, in the third book of the ^Eneid, and the allegory of 
Sin and Death, in the second book of Paradise Lost, had been 
better omitted in these celebrated Poems. 



r LECTURE XLIII. 

HOMER'S ILIAD AND ODYSSEY. — VIRGIL'S -2ENEID. 

As the Epic Poem is universally allowed to possess the high- 
est rank among Poetical Works, it merits a particular discussion. 
Having treated of the nature of this Composition, and the prin- 
cipal rules relating to it, I proceed to make some observations on 
the most distinguished Epic Poems, Ancient and Modern. 

Homer claims, on every account, our first attention, as the 
Father not only of Epic Poetry, but in some measure, of Poetry 



512 THE ILIAD OF HOMER. [LECT. XLIII. 

in general. Whoever sits down to read Homer, must consider 
that he is going to read the most ancient book in the world, 
next to the Bible. Without making this reflection, he cannot 
enter into the spirit, nor relish the Composition of the Author. 
He is not to look for the correctness and elegance of the 
Augustan age. He must divest himself of our modern ideas, of 
dignity and refinement, and transport his imagination almost 
three thousand years back in the history of mankind. What he 
is to expect is a picture of the ancient world. He must reckon 
upon finding characters and manners that retain a considerable 
tincture of the savage state; moral ideas, as yet imperfectly 
formed ; and the appetites and passions of men brought under 
none of those restraints, to which in a more advanced state of 
society, they are accustomed ; but bodily strength, prized as one 
of the chief heroic endowments ; the preparing of a meal, and 
the appeasing of hunger, described as very interesting objects ; 
and the heroes boasting of themselves openly, scolding one 
another outrageously, and glorying, as we should now think very 
indecently, over their fallen enemies. 

The opening of the Iliad possesses none of that sort of dignity, 
which a modern looks for in a great Epic Poem. It turns on no 
higher subject, than the quarrel of two Chieftains about a female 
slave. The Priest of Apollo beseeches Agamemnon to restore 
his daughter, who in the plunder of a city, had fallen to 
Agamemnon's share of booty. He refuses. Apollo at the 
prayer of his Priest, sends a plague into the Grecian camp. 
The Augur, when consulted, declares, that there is no way of 
appeasing Apollo, but by restoring the daughter of his Priest. 
Agamemnon is enraged at the Augur; professes that he likes 
this slave better than his wife Clytemnestra ; but since he must 
restore her, in order to save the army, insists to have another in 
her place; and pitches upon Briseis, the slave of Achilles. 
Achilles, as was to be expected, kindles into rage at this de- 
mand ; reproaches him for his rapacity and insolence, and, after 
giving him many hard names, solemnly swears, that, if he is to 
be thus treated by the General, he will withdraw his troops, and 
assist the Grecians no more against the Trojans. He withdraws 
accordingly. His mother, the Goddess Thetis, interests Jupiter 
in his cause ; who to revenge the wrong which Achilles had suf- 
fered, takes part against the Greeks, and suffers them to fall into 
great and long distress; until Achilles is pacified, and recon- 
ciliation brought about between him and Agamemnon. 

Such is the basis of the whole action of the Iliad. Hence 
rise all those " speciosa miracula," as Horace terms them, which 
fill that extraordinary Poem ; and which have had the power of 
interesting almost all the nations of Europe during every age, 
since the days of Homer. The general admiration commanded 
by a poetical plan, so very different from what any one would 
have formed in our times, ought not, upon reflection, to be 



LECT. XLIII.] THE ILIAD OF HOMER. 513 

matter of surprise. For, besides that a fertile genius can enrich 
and beautify any subject on which it is employed, it is to be 
observed, that ancient manners, how much soever they contradict 
our present notions of dignity and refinement, afford, neverthe- 
less, materials for Poetry, superior, in some respects, to those 
which are furnished by a more polished state of Society. They 
discover human nature more open and undisguised, without any 
of those studied forms of behaviour which now conceal men 
from one another. They give free scope to the strongest and 
most impetuous emotions of the mind, which make a better 
figure in description, than calm and temperate feelings. They 
show us our native prejudices, appetites, and desires, exerting 
themselves without control. From this state of manners, joined 
with the advantage of that strong and expressive Style, which, 
as I formerly observed, commonly distinguishes the Composi- 
tions of early ages, we have ground to look for more of the 
boldness, ease, and freedom of native genius, in Compositions of 
such a period, than in those of more civilized times. And, 
accordingly, the two great characters of the Homeric Poetry 
are, Fire and Simplicity. Let us now proceed to make some 
more particular observations on the Iliad, under the three heads 
of the Subject and Action, the Characters, and Narration of the 
Poet. 

The Subject of the Iliad must unquestionably be admitted to 
be, in the main, happily chosen. In the days of Homer, no 
object could be more splendid and dignified than the Trojan war. 
So great a confederacy of the Grecian states, under one leader ; 
and the ten years' siege which they carried on against Troy, 
must have spread far abroad the renown of many military 
exploits, and interested all Greece in the traditions concerning 
the Heroes who had most eminently signalized themselves. 
Upon these traditions, Homer grounded his Poem ; and though 
he lived, as is generally believed, only two or three centuries 
after the Trojan war, yet, through the want of written records, 
tradition must, by his time, have fallen into the degree of 
obscurity most proper for Poetry ; and have left him at full 
liberty to mix as much fable as he pleased with the remains of 
true history. He has not chosen, for his subject, the whole 
Trojan war ; but, with great judgment, he has selected one part 
of it, the quarrel betwixt Achilles and Agamemnon, and the 
events to which that quarrel gave rise ; which, though they take 
up forty-seven days only, yet include the most interesting and 
most critical period of the war. By this management, he has 
given greater unity to what would have otherwise been an 
unconnected history of battles. He has gained one Hero, or 
principal character, Achilles, who reigns throughout the work ; 
and he has shown the pernicious effect of discord among con- 
federated princes. At the same time, I admit that Homer is 
~less fortunate in his subject than Yirgil. The plan of the .ZEneid 



514 THE ILIAD OF HOMER. [LECT. XLIII. 

includes a greater compass, and a more agreeable diversity of 
events ; whereas the Iliad is almost entirely filled with battles. 

The praise of high invention has in every age been given to 
Homer, with the greatest reason. The prodigious number of 
incidents, of speeches, of characters divine and human, with 
which he abounds ; the surprising variety with which he has 
diversified his battles, in the wounds and deaths, and little his- 
tory-pieces of almost all the persons slain, discover an invention 
next to boundless. But the praise of judgment is, in my 
opinion, no less due to Homer, than that of invention. His 
story is all along conducted with great art. He rises upon us 
gradually ; his Heroes are brought out, one after another, to be 
objects of our attention. The distress thickens, as the Poem 
advances ; and every thing is so contrived as to aggrandize 
Achilles, and to render him, as the Poet intended he should be, 
the capital figure. 

But that wherein Homer excels all Writers, is the character- 
istical part. Here he is without a rival. His lively and 
spirited exhibition of characters is, in a great measure, owing to 
his being so dramatic a Writer, abounding every where with 
dialogue and conversation. There is much more dialogue in 
Homer than in Virgil; or, indeed, than in any other Poet. 
What Virgil informs us of by two words of Narration, Homer 
brings about by a Speech. We may observe here, that this 
method of writing is more ancient than the narrative manner. 
Of this we have a clear proof in the books of the Old Testa- 
ment, which, instead of Narration, abound with Speeches, with 
answers and replies, upon the most familiar subjects. Thus, in 
. the Book of Genesis ; " Joseph said unto his brethren, whence 
come ye ? and they answered, From the land of Canaan we 
come to buy food. And Joseph said, Ye are spies ; to see the 
nakedness of the land are ye come. And they said unto him, 
Nay, my Lord, but to buy food are thy servants come; we are 
all one man's sons, we are true men, thy servants are no spies. 
And he said unto them, Nay, but to see the nakedness of the 
land ye are come. And they said, Thy servants are twelve 
brethren, the sons of one man in, the land of Canaan ; and 
behold the youngest is this day with our father ; and one is not. 
And Joseph said unto them, This it is that I spake unto you, 
saying ye are spies. Hereby ye shall be proved ; by the life of 
Pharaoh, ye shall not go forth, except your youngest brother 
come hither," &c. Genesis xlii. 7 — 15. Such a Style as this, is 
the most simple and artless form of Writing, and must there- 
fore, undoubtedly, have been the most ancient. It is copying 
directly from nature ; giving a plain rehearsal of what passed, or 
was supposed to pass, in conversation between the persons of 
whom the Author treats. In progress of time, when the Art of 
Writing was more studied, it was thought more elegant to com- 
press the substance of conversation into short distinct narrative, 



LECT. XLIII.] THE ILIAD OF HOMER. 515 

made by the Poet or Historian in his own person ; and to 
reserve direct speeches for solemn occasions only. 

The Ancient Dramatic method which Homer practised has 
some advantages, balanced with some defects. It renders Com- 
position more natural and animated, and more expressive of 
manners and characters, but w T ithal less grave and majestic, and 
sometimes tiresome. Homer, it must be admitted, has carried 
his propensity to the making of Speeches too far ; and if he be 
tedious anywhere, it is in these ; some of them trifling, and 
some of them plainly unseasonable. Together with the Greek 
vivacity, he leaves upon our minds some impression of the Greek 
loquacity also. His Speeches, however, are upon the whole 
characteristic and lively; and to them we owe, in a great 
measure, that admirable display which he has given of human 
nature. Every one who reads him, becomes familiarly and 
intimately acquainted with his Heroes. We seem to have 
lived among them, and to have conversed with them. Not 
only has he pursued the single virtue of courage, through all 
its different forms and features, in his different warriors ; but 
some more delicate characters, into which courage either enters 
not at all, or but for an inconsiderable part, he has drawn with 
singular art. 

How finely, for instance, has he painted the character of 
Helen, so as, notwithstanding her frailty and her crimes, to 
prevent her from being an odious object ! The admiration 
with which the old generals behold her, in the Third Book, 
when she is coming towards them, presents her to us with 
much dignity. Her veiling herself, and shedding tears, her 
confusion in the presence of Priam, her grief and self-accusations 
at the sight of Menelaus, her upbraiding Paris for his cowardice, 
and, at the same time, her returning fondness for. him, ex- 
hibit the most striking features of that mixed female character, 
which we partly condemn, and partly pity. Homer never in- 
troduces her, without making her say something to move our 
compassion ; while, at the same time, he takes care to contrast 
her character with that of a virtuous matron, in the chaste and 
tender Andromache. 

Paris himself, the author of all the mischief, is characterised 
with the utmost propriety. He is, as we should expect him, 
a mixture of gallantry and effeminacy. He retreats from 
Menelaus, on his first appearance ; but, immediately afterwards, 
enters into single combat with him. He is a great master 
of civility, remarkably courteous in his speeches ; and receives 
all the reproofs of his brother Hector with modesty and 
deference. He is described as a person of elegance and 
taste. He was the Architect of his own Palace- He is, in 
the Sixth Book, found by Hector, burnishing and dressing up 
his armour; and issues forth to battle with a peculiar gaiety 
and ostentation of appearance^ which is illustrated by one of 



516 THE ILIAD OF HOMER. [LECT. XLIII. 

the finest comparisons in all the Iliad, that of the horse prancing 
to the river. 

Homer has been blamed for making his Hero Achilles of 
too brutal and unamiable a character. But I am inclined to 
think, that injustice is commonly done to Achilles, upon the 
credit of two lines of Horace, who has certainly overloaded his 
character : 

Impiger, iracundus, inexorabilis, acer, 

Jura negat sibi nata ; nihil non arogat armis. 

Achilles is passionate, indeed, to a great degree ; but he 
is far from being a contemner of laws and justice. In the 
contest with Agamemnon, though he carries it on with too 
much heat, yet he has reason on his side. He was notoriously 
wronged; but he submits; and resigns Briseis peaceably, 
when the heralds come to demand her; only, he will fight 
no longer under the command of a leader who had affronted 
him. Besides his wonderful bravery and contempt of death, 
he has several other qualities of a hero. He is open and sincere. 
He loves his subjects, and respects the Gods. He is dis- 
tinguished by strong friendships and attachments ; he is through- 
out, high-spirited, gallant, and honourable; and allowing for 
a degree of ferocity which belonged to the times, and enters 
into the characters of most of Homer's Heroes, he is, upon the 
whole, abundantly fitted to raise admiration, though not pure 
esteem. 

Under the head of Characters, Homer's Gods, or his Ma- 
chinery, according to the critical term, come under consider- 
ation. The Gods make a great figure in the Iliad ; much 
greater indeed than they do in the iEneid, or in any other 
Epic Poem; and hence Homer has become the standard of 
Poetic Theology. Concerning Machinery in general, I de- 
livered my sentiments in the former Lecture. Concerning 
Homer's Machinery, in particular, we must observe, that it 
was not his own invention. Like every other good Poet, he 
unquestionably followed the traditions of his country. The 
age of the Trojan war approached to the age of the Gods 
and Demi-gods in Greece. Several of the Heroes concerned 
in that war were reputed to be the children of these Gods. Of 
course, the traditionary tales relating to them, and to the 
exploits of that age, were blended with the Fables of the 
Deities. These popular legends, Homer very properly adopted ; 
though it is perfectly absurd to infer from this, that therefore 
Poets arising in succeeding ages, and writing on quite different 
subjects, are obliged to follow the same system of Machinery. 

In the hands of Homer, it produces, on the whole, a noble 
effect ; it is always gay and amusing ; often, lofty and magni- 
ficent. It introduces into his Poem a great number of per- 
sonages, almost as much distinguished by characters as his 
human actors. It diversifies his battles greatly by the inter- 



LECT. XLIII.] THE ILIAD OF HOMER. 517 

vention of the Gods ; and by frequently shifting the scene from 
earth to heaven, it gives an agreeable relief to the mind, in the 
midst of so much blood and slaughter. Homer's Gods, it must 
be confessed, though they be always lively and animated figures, 
yet sometimes want dignity. The conjugal contentions be- 
tween Juno and Jupiter, with which he entertains us, and the 
indecent squabbles he describes among the inferior Deities, 
accordiDg as they take different sides with the contending 
parties, would be very improper models for any modern Poet to 
imitate. In apology for Homer, however, it must be remem- 
bered, that according to the Fables of those days, the Gods are 
but one remove above the condition of men. They have all the 
human passions. They drink and feast, and are vulnerable like 
men ; they have children and kinsmen, in the opposite armies ; 
and except that they are immortal, that they have houses on the 
top of Olympus, and winged chariots, in which they are often 
flying down to earth, and then re-ascending, in order to feast on 
nectar and ambrosia, they are in truth no higher beings than the 
human Heroes, and therefore very fit to take part in their con- 
tentions. At the same time, though Homer so frequently 
degrades his divinities, yet he knows how to make them appear, 
in some conjunctures, with the most awful majesty. Jupiter, 
the Father of Gods and Men, is for the most part, intro- 
duced with great dignity ; and several of the most sublime con- 
ceptions in the Iliad are founded on the appearances of Neptune, 
Minerva, and Apollo, on great occasions. 

With regard to Homer's Style and manner of Writing, it 
is easy, natural, and in the highest degree animated. It will 
be admired by such only as relish ancient simplicity, and can 
make allowance for certain negligences and repetitions, which 
greater refinement in the Art of Writing has taught succeeding, 
though far inferior Poets to avoid. For Homer is the most 
simple in his Style of all the great Poets, and resembles most 
the Style of the poetical parts of the Old Testament. They can 
have no conception of his manner, who are acquainted with 
him in Mr. Pope's Translation only. An excellent poetical 
performance that Translation is, and faithful in the main to the 
Original. In some places, it may be thought to have even im- 
proved Homer. It has certainly softened some of his rude- 
nesses, and added delicacy and grace to some of his sentiments." 
But withal, it is no other than Homer modernized. In the 
midst of the elegance and luxuriancy of Mr. Pope's language, 
we lose sight of the old Bard's simplicity. I know indeed no 
Author, to whom it is more difficult to do justice in a Trans- 
lation, than Homer. As the plainness of his diction, were it 
literally rendered, would often appear flat in any modern lan- 
guage; so, in the midst of that plainness, and not a little 
heightened by it, there are everywhere breaking forth upon us 
flashes of native fire, of sublimity and beauty, which hardly 



518 THE ILIAD OF HOMER. [LECT. XLIII. 

any language, except his own, could preserve. His Versifica- 
tion has been universally acknowledged to be uncommonly 
melodious, and to carry, beyond that of any Poet, a resemblance 
in the sound to the sense and meaning. 

In Narration, Homer is, at all times, remarkably concise, 
which renders him lively and agreeable ; though, in his speeches, 
as I have before admitted, sometimes tedious. He is every 
where descriptive; and descriptive by means of those well- 
chosen particulars, which form the excellency of description. 
Virgil gives us the nod of Jupiter with great magnificence : 

Annuit * et totum nutu tremefecit Olympum. 

But Homer, in describing the same thing, gives us the sable 
eye-brows of Jupiter bent, and his ambrosial curls shaken, at 
the moment when he gives the nod ; and thereby renders the 
figure more natural and lively. Whenever he seeks to draw 
our attention to some interesting object, he particularizes it so 
happily, as to paint it in a manner to our sight. The shot of 
Pindarus' arrow, which broke the truce between the two armies, 
as related in the Fourth Book, may be given for an instance ; 
and above all, the admirable interview of Hector with Andro- 
mache, in the Sixth Book ; where all the circumstances of con- 
jugal and parental tenderness, the child affrighted with the 
view of his Father's Helmet and Crest, and clinging to the 
nurse ; Hector putting off his Helmet, taking the child into his 
arms, and offering up a prayer for him to the Gods ; Andro- 
mache receiving back the child with a smile of pleasure, and, at 
the same instant, bursting into tears, SaKpvoev yeXcKjacra, as it is 
finely expressed in the original, form the most natural and 
affecting picture that can possibly be imagined. 

In the description of Battles, Homer particularly excels. He 
works up the hurry, the terror, and confusion of them in so 
masterly a manner, as to place the reader in the very midst of 
the engagement. It is here, that the fire of his genius is most 
highly displayed ; insomuch, that Virgil's Battles, and indeed 
those of most other Poets, are cold and inanimated in com- 
parison of Homer's. 

With regard to Similies, no Poet abounds so much with 
them. Several of them are beyond doubt extremely beautiful ; 
such as those of the fires in the Trojan camp compared to the 
Moon and Stars by night ; Paris going forth to battle, to the 
war-horse prancing to the river ; and Euphorbus slain, to the 
flowering shrub cut down by a sudden blast : all which are among 
the finest poetical passages that are anywhere to be found. 
I am not, however, of opinion that Homer's Comparisons, taken 
in general, are his greatest beauties. They come too thick 
upon us; and often interrupt the train of his narration or 
description. The resemblance on which they are founded, is 
sometimes not clear ; and the objects whence they are taken, 



LECT. XLIII.] THE ODYSSEY OF HOMEE. 519 

are too uniform. His Lions, Bulls, Eagles, and herds of Sheep, 
recur too frequently ; and the allusions in some of his Similies, 
even after the allowances that are to be made for ancient 
manners, must be admitted to be debasing.* 

My observations, hitherto, have been made upon the Iliad 
only. It is necessary to take some notice of the Odyssey 
also. Longinus's criticism upon it is not without foundation, 
that Homer may in this Poem be compared to the setting 
sun, whose grandeur still remains without the heat of his 
meridian beams. It wants the vigour and sublimity of the 
Iliad; yet, at the same time, possesses so many beauties, 
as to be justly entitled to high praise. It is a very amusing 
Poem, and has much greater variety than the Iliad ; it contains 
many interesting stories, and beautiful descriptions. We see 
everywhere the same descriptive and dramatic genius, and the 
same fertility of invention that appears in the other work. It 
descends indeed from the dignity of Gods, and Heroes, and 
warlike achievements ; but in recompense, we have more 
pleasing pictures of ancient manners. Instead of that ferocity 
which reigns in the Iliad, the Odyssey presents us with the 
most amiable images of hospitality and humanity; entertains 
us with many a wonderful adventure, and many a landscape of 
nature; and instructs us by a constant vein of morality and 
virtue, which runs through the Poem. 

At the same time, there are some defects which must be 
acknowledged in the Odyssey. Many scenes in it fall below the 
majesty which we naturally expect in an Epic Poem. The last 
Twelve Books, after Ulysses is landed in Ithaca, are, in several 
parts, tedious and languid; and though the discovery, which 
Ulysses makes of himself to his Nurse Euryclea, and his inter- 
view with Penelope before she knows him, in the Nineteenth 
Book, are tender and affecting, yet the Poet does not seem 
happy in the great anagnorisis, or the discovery of Ulysses to 
Penelope. She is too cautious and distrustful, and we are dis- 

* The severest critic upon Homer in modern times, M. la Motte, admits all that his 
admirers urge for the superiority of his genius and talents as a Poet : " C'etoit un 
Genie naturellement Poetique, ami des Fables & des merveilles, et porte en general a 
limitation, soit des objets de la nature, soit des sentimens et des actions des hommes. II 
avoit l'esprit vaste etfecond : plus eleve que delicat, plus naturel qu'ingenieux, et plus 
amoureux de l'abondance que du choix. — II a saisi, par une superiorite de gout, les 
premieres idees de l'eloquence dans toutes les genres ; il a parle la langage des toutes 
les passions ; et il a du moins ouvert aux ecrivains qui doivent le suivre une infinite de 
routes, qu'il ne restoit plus qu'a applanir. II y a apparence que, en quelques temps 
qu' Homere eut vecu, il eut ete, du moins, leplus grand Poete de son pais : et a ne le 
prendre que dans ce sens, on peut dire, qu'il est le maitre de ceux memes qui l'ont sur- 
passed' — Discours sur Homere. (Euvres de la Motte, tome 2d. After these high 
praises of the Author, be indeed endeavours to bring the merit of the Iliad very low. 
• But bis principal objections turn on the debasing ideas which are there given of the 
Gods, the gross characters and manners of the Heroes, and the imperfect morality of the 
sentiments; which, as Voltaire observes, is like accusing a painter for having drawn 
his figures in the dress of the times. Homer painted his Gods, such as popular tradition 
then represented them ; and described such characters and sentiments, as he found 
among those with whom he lived. 



520 THE ^ENEID OF VIRGIL. [LECT. XLIII. 

appointed of the surprise of joy, which we expected on that 
high occasion. 

After having said so much of the Father of Epic Poetry, it 
is now time to proceed to Virgil, who has a character clearly 
marked, and quite distinct from that of Homer. As the dis- 
tinguishing excellencies of the Iliad are Simplicity and Fire ; 
those of the .ZEneid are Elegance and Tenderness. Yirgil is, 
beyond doubt, less animated and less sublime than Homer ; but 
to counterbalance this, he has fewer negligences, greater variety, 
and supports more of a correct and regular dignity throughout 
his work. 

When we begin to read the Iliad, we find ourselves in the 
region of the most remote, and even unrefined antiquity. When 
we open the -ZEneid, we discover all the correctness, and the 
improvements of the Augustan age. We meet with no conten- 
tions of heroes about a female slave ; no violent scolding, nor 
abusive language, but the Poem opens with the utmost magnifi- 
cence; with Juno, forming designs for preventing .ZEneas's 
establishment in Italy, and .ZEneas himself presented to us with 
all his fleet in the middle of a storm, which is described in the 
highest style of Poetry. 

The subject of the ^Eneid is extremely happy ; still more so, 
in my opinion, than either of Homer's Poems. As nothing could 
be more noble, nor carry more of Epic dignity, so nothing could 
be more flattering and interesting to the Roman people, than 
Virgil's deriving the origin of their state from so famous a hero 
as .ZEneas. The object was splendid in itself; it gave the Poet 
a theme, taken from the ancient traditionary history of his own 
country ; it allowed him to connect his subject with Homer's 
stories, and to adopt all his mythology; it afforded him the 
opportunity of frequently glancing at all the future great ex- 
ploits of the Romans, and of describing Italy, and the very- 
territory of Rome, in its ancient and fabulous state. The esta- 
blishment of .ZEneas constantly traversed by Juno, leads to a 
great diversity of events, of voyages, and wars ; and furnishes a 
proper intermixture of the incidents of peace with martial ex- 
ploits. Upon the whole, I believe, there is no where to be 
found so complete a model of an Epic Fable, or Story, as Virgil's 
.ZEneid. I see no foundation for the opinion, entertained by 
some Critics, that the -ZEneid is to be considered as an Allego- 
rical Poem, which carries a constant reference to the character 
and reign of Augustus Caesar ; or, that Virgil's main design in 
composing the .ZEneid, was to reconcile the Romans to the 
government of that Prince, who is supposed to be shadowed out 
under the character of ^Eneas. Virgil, indeed, like the other 
Poets of that age, takes every opportunity which his subject 
affords him, of paying court to Augustus.* But, to imagine 

* As particularly in that noted passage of the 6th Book, I. 791. 
Hie vir, hie est, tibi quem promitti saepius audis, &c. 



LECT. XLIII.] THE .EtfEID OF VIRGIL. 521 

that he carried a political plan in his view, through the whole 
Poem, appears to me no more than a fanciful refinement. He 
had sufficient motives, as a Poet, to determine him to the choice 
of his subject, from its being, in itself, both great and pleasing ; 
from its being suited to his genius, and its being attended with 
the peculiar advantages, which I mentioned above, for the full 
display of poetical talents. 

Unity of action is perfectly preserved ; as, from beginning to 
end, one main object is always kept in view, the settlement of 
-ZEneas in Italy, by the order of the Gods. As the story com- 
prehends the transactions of several years, part of the trans- 
actions are very properly thrown into a recital made by the 
Hero. The Episodes are linked with sufficient connection to 
the main subject; and the Nodus, or Intrigue of the Poem, 
is, according to the plan of ancient machinery, happily formed. 
The wrath of Juno, who opposes herself to the Trojan settle- 
ment in Italy, gives rise to all the difficulties which obstruct 
iEneas's undertaking, and connects the human with the celestial 
operations, throughout the whole work. Hence arise the tem- 
pest which throws iEneas upon the shore of Africa ; the passion 
of Dido, who endeavours to detain him at Carthage ; and the 
efforts of Turnus, who opposes him in war. Till, at last, upon a 
composition made with Jupiter, that the Trojan name shall be 
for ever sunk in the Latin, Juno foregoes her resentment, and 
the Hero becomes victorious. 

In these main points, Virgil has conducted his work with great 
propriety, and shown his art and judgment. But the admira- 
tion due to so eminent a Poet, must not prevent us from remark- 
ing some other particulars in which he has failed. First, there 
are scarce any characters marked in the -ZEneid. In this respect 
it is insipid, when compared to the Iliad, which is full of charac- 
ters and life. Achates, and Cloanthus, and Gyas, and the rest 
of the Trojan Heroes who accompanied ^Eneas into Italy, are so 
many undistinguished figures, who are in no way made known 
to us, either by any sentiments which they utter, or any memo- 
rable exploits which they perform. Even .ZEneas himself is not 
a very interesting Hero. He is described, indeed, as pious and 
brave ; but his character is not marked with any of those strokes 
that touch the heart ; it is a sort of cold and tame character ; and 
throughout his behaviour to Dido, in the fourth book, especially 
in the speech which he makes after she suspected his intention 
of leaving her, there appears a certain hardness, and want of 
relenting, which is far from rendering him amiable.* Dido's own 
character is by much the best supported, in the whole -ZEneid. 
The warmth of her passions, the keenness of her indignation and 

* Num. fletu ingemuit nostro ? Num lumina flexit ? 

Nura lachrymas victus dedit ? Aut miseratus amantem est ? 

Mn, iv. 368. 
N N 



522 THE ^ENEID OF VIRGIL. [LECT. XLIII. 

resentment, and the violence of her whole character, exhibit 
a figure greatly more animated than any other which Virgil 
has drawn. 

Besides this defect of character in the .ZEneid, the distribution 
and management of the subject are, in some respects, exception- 
able. The JEneid, it is true, must be considered with the indul- 
gence due to a work not thoroughly completed. The six last 
books are said not to have received the finishing hand of the 
Author ; and for this reason, he ordered, by his will, the ^Eneid 
to be committed to the flames. But though this may account for 
incorrectness of execution, it does not apologize for a falling oif 
in the subject, which seems to take place in the latter part of the 
work. The wars with the Latins are inferior, in point of dignity, 
to the more interesting objects which had before been presented 
to us, in the destruction of Troy, the intrigue with Dido, and 
the descent into Hell. And in those Italian wars, there is, per- 
haps, a more material fault still, in the conduct of the story. 
The Reader, as Voltaire has observed, is tempted to take part 
w r ith Turnus against iEneas. Turnus, a brave young prince, in 
love with Lavinia, his near relation, is destined for her by gen- 
eral consent, and highly favoured by her mother. Lavinia 
herself discovers no reluctance to the match : when there arrives 
a stranger, a fugitive from a distant region, who had never seen 
her, and who founding a claim to an establishment in Italy upon 
oracles and prophecies, embroils the country in war, kills the 
lover of Lavinia, and proves the occasion of her mother's death. 
Such a plan is not fortunately laid, for disposing us to be favour- 
able to the Hero of the Poem ; and the defect might have been 
easily remedied, by the Poet's making iEneas, instead of dis- 
tressing Lavinia, deliver her from the persecution of some rival 
who was odious to her, and to the whole country. 

But, notwithstanding these defects, which it was necessary to 
remark, Virgil possesses beauties which have justly drawn the 
admiration of ages, and which, to this day, hold the balance in 
equilibrium between his fame and that of Homer. The prin- 
cipal and distinguishing excellency of Virgil, and which, in my 
opinion, he possesses beyond all Poets, is Tenderness. Nature 
had endowed him with exquisite sensibility ; he felt every 
affecting circumstance in the scenes he describes ; and, by a 
single stroke, he knows how to reach the heart. This, in an 
Epic Poem, is the merit next to sublimity ; and puts it in an 
Author's power to render his Composition extremely interesting 
to all readers. 

The chief beauty, of this kind, in the Iliad, is, the interview 
of Hector with Andromache. But, in the iEneid, there are 
many such. The second book is one of the greatest master- 
pieces that ever was executed by any hand ; and Virgil seems to 
have put forth there the whole strength of his genius, as the 
subject afforded a variety of scenes, both of the awful and tender 



LECT. XLIII.] THE ^NEID OF VIRGIL. 523 

kind. The images of horror, presented by a city burned and 
sacked in the night, are finely mixed with pathetic and affecting- 
incidents. Nothing, in any Poet, is more beautifully described 
than the death of old Priam ; and the family-pieces of ^Eneas, 
Anchises, and Creusa, are as tender as can be conceived. In 
many passages of the zEneid, the same pathetic spirit shines ; 
and they have been always the favourite passages in that work. 
The fourth book, for instance, relating the unhappy passion and 
death of Dido, has been always most justly admired, and abounds 
with beauties of the highest kind. The interview of -ZEneas 
with Andromache and Helenus, in the third book ; the Episodes 
of Pallas and Evander, of Msus and Euryalus, of Lausus and 
Mezentius, in the Italian wars, are all striking instances of the 
Poet's power of raising the tender emotions. For we must 
observe, that though the -ZEneid be an unequal Poem, and, in 
some places, languid, yet there are beauties scattered through 
it all ; and not a few, even in the last six books. The best 
and most 'finished books, upon the whole, are, the first, the 
second, the fourth, the sixth, the seventh, the eighth, and the 
twelfth. 

Yirgil's Battles are far inferior to Homer's in point of fire 
and sublimity : but there is one important Episode, the Descent 
into Hell, in which he has outdone Homer in the Odyssey, by 
many degrees. There is nothing in all antiquity equal, in its 
kind, to the sixth book of the -ZEneid. The scenery and the 
objects are great and striking, and fill the mind with that solemn 
awe, which was to be expected from a view of the invisible 
world. There runs through the whole description, a certain 
philosophical sublime ; which Yirgil's Platonic Genius, and the 
enlarged ideas of the Augustan age, enabled him to support 
with a degree of majesty, far beyond what the rude ideas of 
Homer's age suffered him to attain. With regard to the sweet- 
ness and beauty of Yirgil's numbers, throughout his whole 
works, they are so well known, that it were needless to enlarge 
in the praise of them. 

Upon the whole, as to the comparative merit of these two 
great princes of Epic Poetry, Homer and Yirgil ; the former 
must, undoubtedly, be admitted to be the greater Genius; the 
latter, to be the more correct Writer. Homer was an original 
in his art, and discovers both the beauties and the defects which 
are to be expected in an original Author, compared with those 
who succeed him ; more boldness, more nature and ease, more 
sublimity and force ; but greater irregularities and negligences in 
composition. Yirgil has, all along, kept his eye upon Homer ; in 
many places, he has not so much imitated, as he has literally trans- 
lated him. The description of the Storm, for instance, in the first 
.ZEneid, and iEneas's speech upon that occasion, are translations 
from the fifth book of the Odyssey ; not to mention almost all 
the similies of Yirgil, which are no other than copies of those of 

N N 2 



524 lucan's PHARSALIA. [LECT. XL IV. 

Homer. The pre-eminence in invention, therefore, must, beyond 
doubt, be ascribed to Homer. As to the pre-eminence in judg- 
ment, though many Critics are disposed to give it to Virgil, yet, 
in my opinion, it hangs doubtful. In Homer, we discern all the 
Greek vivacity ; in Virgil, all the Roman stateliness. Homer's 
imagination is by much the most rich and copious ; Virgil's, the 
most chaste and correct. The strength of the former lies in his 
power of warming the fancy, that of the latter, in his power of 
touching the heart. Homer's style is more simple and animated ; 
Virgil's more elegant and uniform. The first has, on many 
occasions, a sublimity to which the latter never attains ; but the 
latter, in return, never sinks below a certain degree of Epic 
dignity, which cannot so clearly be pronounced of the former. 
Not however, to detract from the admiration due to both these 
great Poets, most of Homer's defects may reasonably be imputed, 
not to his genius, but to the manners of the age* in which he 
lived ; and for the feeble passages of the ^Eneid, this excuse 
ought to be admitted, that the -ZEneid was left an unfinished work. 



LECTURE XLIV. 



lucan's pharsalia- 
— fenelon's telemachus— voltaire's henriade — mil- 
ton's PARADISE LOST. 



After Homer and Virgil, the next great Epic Poet of ancient 
times, who presents himself, is Lucan. He is a Poet who de- 
serves our attention, on account of a very peculiar mixture of 
great beauties with great faults. Though his Pharsalia discover 
too little invention, and be conducted in too historical a manner, 
to be accounted a perfectly regular Epic Poem, yet it were the 
mere squeamishness of Criticism, to exclude it from the Epic 
class. The boundaries, as I formerly remarked, are far from 
being ascertained by any such precise limit, that we must refuse 
the Epic name to a Poem, which treats of great and heroic 
adventures, because it is not exactly conformable to the plans of 
Homer and Virgil. The subject of the Pharsalia carries, un- 
doubtedly, all the Epic Grandeur and Dignity ; neither does it 
want unity of object, viz. the Triumph of Caesar over the Roman 
Liberty. As it stands at present, it is, indeed, brought to no 
proper close. But either time has deprived us of the last books, 
or it has been left by the Author an incomplete work. 

Though Lucan's subject be abundantly heroic, yet I cannot 
reckon him happy in the choice of it. It has two defects. The 



LECT. XLIY.J lucan's pharsalia. 525 

one is, that civil wars, especially when as fierce and cruel as 
those of the Romans, present too many shocking objects to be 
fit for Epic Poetry, and give odious and disgusting views of 
human nature. Gallant and honourable achievements furnish a 
more proper theme for the Epic Muse. But Lucan's Genius, it 
must be confessed, seems to delight in savage scenes ; he dwells 
upon them too much ; and, not content with those which his 
subject naturally furnished, he goes out of his way to introduce 
a long Episode of Marius and Sylla's proscriptions, which abounds 
with all the forms of atrocious cruelty. 

The other defect of Lucan's subject is, its being too near the 
times in which he lived. This is a circumstance, as I observed 
in a former Lecture, always unfortunate for a Poet; as it 
deprives him of the assistance of fiction and machinery, and 
thereby renders his work less splendid and amusing. Lucan has 
submitted to this disadvantage of his subject ; and in doing so, 
has acted with more propriety, than if he had made an unsea- 
sonable attempt to embellish it with machinery ; for the fables 
of the Gods would have made a very unnatural mixture with 
the exploits of Caesar and Pompey ; and instead of raising, 
would have diminished the dignity of such recent and well-known 
facts. 

With regard to characters, Lucan draws them with spirit and 
with force. But, though Pompey be his professed Hero, he 
does not succeed in interesting us much in his favour. Pompey 
is not made to possess any high distinction, either for magna- 
nimity in sentiment, or bravery in action ; but, on the contrary, 
is always eclipsed by the superior abilities of Csesar. Cato is, 
in truth, Lucian's favourite character, and wherever he intro- 
duces him, he appears to rise above himself. Some of the 
noblest, and most conspicuous passages in the work, are such as 
relate to Cato ; either speeches put into his mouth, or descrip- 
tions of his behaviour. His speech, in particular, to Labienus, 
who urged him to inquire at the Oracle of Jupiter Ammon, 
concerning the issue of the war [book ix. 564], deserves to be 
remarked, as equal, for Moral Sublimity, to any thing that is to 
be found in all antiquity. 

In the conduct of the story, our Author has attached himself 
too much to chronological order. This renders the thread of his 
narration broken and interrupted, and makes him hurry us too 
often from place to place. He is too digressive also ; frequently 
turning aside from his subject, to give us, sometimes geographical 
descriptions of a country ; sometimes philosophical disquisitions 
concerning natural objects ; as, concerning the African Serpents, 
in the ninth book, and the sources of the Nile in the tenth. 

There are, in the Pharsalia, several very poetical and spirited 
descriptions. But the Author's chief strength does not lie, 
either in Narration or Description. His Narration is often dry 
and harsh : his Descriptions are often overwrought, and employed 



526 THE PHAESALIA OF LUCAN. [LECT. XLIV. 

too much upon disagreeable objects. His principal merit con- 
sists in his sentiments, which are generally noble and striking, 
and expressed in that glowing and ardent manner, which pecu- 
liarly distinguishes him. Lucan is the most philosophical, and 
the most public-spirited Poet of all antiquity. He was the 
nephew of the famous- Seneca, the Philosopher: was himself 
a Stoic; and the spirit of that Philosophy breathes throughout 
his Poem. We must observe, too, that he is the only ancient 
Epic Poet whom the subject of his Poem really and deeply 
interested. Lucan recounted no fiction. He was a Roman, and 
had felt all the direful effects of the Roman civil wars, and of 
that severe despotism which succeeded the loss of liberty. His 
high and bold spirit made him enter deeply into this subject, and 
kindle, on many occasions, into the most real warmth. Hence, 
he abounds in exclamations and apostrophes, which are, almost 
always, well-timed, and supported with a vivacity and fire that 
do him no small honour. 

But it is the fate of this Poet, that his beauties can never be 
mentioned, without their suggesting his blemishes also. As his 
principal excellency is a lively and glowing genius, which 
appears sometimes in his descriptions, and very often in his sen- 
timents, his great defect in both is, want of moderation. He 
carries every thing to an extreme. He knows not where to 
stop. From an effort to aggrandize his objects, he becomes 
tumid and unnatural : and it frequently happens, that where the 
second line of one of his descriptions is sublime, the third, in 
which he meant to rise still higher, is perfectly bombast. Lucan 
lived in an age, when the Schools of the Declaimers had begun 
to corrupt the Eloquence and Taste of Pome. He was not free 
from the infection ; and too often, instead of showing the genius 
of the Poet, betrays the spirit of the Declaim er. 

On the whole, however, he is an Author of lively and original 
genius. His sentiments are so high, and his fire, on occasions, 
so great, as to atone for many of his defects ; and passages may 
be produced from him, which are inferior to none in any Poet 
whatever. The characters, for instance, which he draws of 
Pompey and Csesar in the first Book, are masterly ; and the 
comparison of Pompey to the aged decaying oak, is highly 
poetical : 

Totus popularibus auris 
Impelli, plausuque sui gaudere theatri ; 
Nee reparare novas vires, multumque. priori 
Credere fortunae ; stat magni nominis umbra. 
Qualis, frugifero quercus sublimis in agro, 
Exuvias veteres populi, sacrataque gestans 
Dona ducura : nee jam validis radicibus haerens, 
Pondere fixa suo est ; nudosque per aera ramos 
Effundens, trunco, non frondibus, efficit umbram. 
At quamvis primo nutet casura sub Euro, 
Et circum sylvae firmo se robore tollant, 
Sola tamen colitur. Sed non in Caesare tantum 



LECT. XLIV.] TASSO'S JERUSALEM. 527 

Nomen erat, nee fama ducis ; sed nescia virtus 
Stare loco ; solusque pudor non vincere bello ; 
Acer et indomitus.* Lib. i. 32. 

But when we consider the whole execution of his Poem, we 
are obliged to pronounce, that his poetical fire was not under 
the government of either sound judgment, or correct taste. His 
genius had strength, but not tenderness ; nothing of what may 
be called amenity, or sweetness. In his Style, there is abun- 
dance of force ; but a mixture of harshness, and frequently of 
obscurity, occasioned by his desire of expressing himself in a 
pointed and unusual manner. Compared with Virgil, he may 
be allowed to have more fire and higher sentiments, but in every 
thing else, falls infinitely below him, particularly in purity, 
elegance, and tenderness. 

As Statius and Silius Italicus, though they be Poets of the 
Epic Class, are too inconsiderable for particular criticism, I 
proceed next to Tasso, the most distinguished Epic Poet in 
Modern Ages. 

His Jerusalem Delivered, was published in the year 1574. It 
is a Poem regularly and strictly Epic, in its whole construction ; 
and adorned with all the beauties that belong to that species of 
Composition. The subject is, the recovery of Jerusalem from 
the Infidels, by the united powers of Christendom; which, in 
itself, and more especially according to the ideas of Tasso's age, 
was a splendid, venerable, and heroic enterprise. The opposition 

* With gifts and liberal bounty sought for fame, 
And loved to hear the vulgar shout his name ; 
In his own theatre rejoiced to sit, 
Amidst the noisy praises of the pit. 
Careless of future ills that might betide, 
No aid he sought to prop his falling side, 
But on his former fortune much rely'd. 
Still seemed he to possess, and fill his place ; 
But stood the shadow of what once he was. 
So, in the field with Ceres' bounty spread, 
Uprears some ancient oak his reverend head : 
Chaplets, and sacred gifts his boughs adorn, 
And spoils of war by mighty heroes worn ; 
But the first vigour of his root now gone, 
He stands dependant on his weight alone ; 
All bare his naked branches are displayed, 
And with his leafless trunk he forms a shade. 
Yet though the winds his ruin daily threat, 
As every blast would heave him from his seat ; 
Though thousand fairer trees the field supplies, 
That rich in youthful verdure round him rise, 
Fixed in his ancient seat, he yields to none, 
And wears the honours of the grove alone. 
But Caesar's greatness, and his strength was more, 
Than past renown and antiquated power ; 
'Twas not the fame of what he once had been, 
Or tales in old records or annals seen ; 
But 'twas a valour, restless, unconfined, 
Which no success could sate, nor limits bind ; 
'Twas shame, a soldier's shame, untaught to yield, 
That blushed for nothing but an ill-fought field. Rowe. 



528 TASSO'S JERUSALEM. [LECT. XLIV. 

of the Christians to the Saracens forms an interesting contrast. 
The subject produces none of those fierce and shocking scenes of 
civil discord, which hurt the mind in Lucan, but exhibits the 
efforts of zeal and bravery, inspired by an honourable object. 
The share which Religion possesses in the enterprise, both tends 
to render it more august, and opens a natural field for*machinery, 
and sublime description. The action too lies in a country, and 
at a period of time, sufficiently remote to allow an intermixture 
of fabulous tradition and fiction with true History. 

In the conduct of the story, Tasso has shown a rich and fer- 
tile invention, which, in a Poet, is a capital quality. He is full 
of events ; and these too abundantly various, and diversified in 
their kind. He never allows us to be tired by mere war and 
fighting. He frequently shifts the scene ; and, from camps and 
battles, transports us to more pleasing objects. Sometimes the 
solemnities of religion; sometimes the intrigues of love; at 
other times, the adventures of a journey, or even the incidents of 
pastoral life, relieve and entertain the reader. At the same time, 
the whole work is artfully connected, and while there is much 
variety in the parts, there is perfect unity in the plan. The 
recovery of Jerusalem is the object kept in view through the 
whole, and with it the Poem closes. All the Episodes, if we 
except that of Olindo and Sophronia, in the Second Book, on 
which I formerly passed a censure, are sufficiently related to the 
main subject of the Poem. 

The Poem is enlivened with a variety of characters, and those 
too both clearly marked and well supported. Godfrey, the 
leader of the enterprise, prudent, moderate, brave; Tancred, 
amorous, generous, and gallant, and well contrasted with the 
fierce and brutal Argantes ; Rinaldo (who is properly the Hero 
of the Poem, and is in part copied after Homer's Achilles), 
passionate and resentful, seduced by the allurements of Armida ; 
but a personage, on the whole, of much zeal, honour, and 
heroism. The brave and high-minded Solyman, the tender 
Erminia, the artful and violent Armida, the masculine Clorinda, 
are all of them well drawn and animated figures. In the 
characteristical part, Tasso is indeed remarkably distinguished ; 
he is, in this respect, superior to Yirgil ; and yields to no Poet, 
except Homer. 

He abounds very much with Machinery ; and in this part of 
the work his merit is more dubious. Wherever celestial beings 
are made to interpose, his Machinery is noble. God looking 
down upon the hosts, and, on different occasions, sending an 
Angel to check the Pagans, and to rebuke the evil spirits, pro- 
duces a sublime effect. The description of Hell, too, with the 
appearance and speech of Satan, in the beginning of the Fourth 
Book, is extremely striking ; and plainly has been imitated by 
Milton, though he must be allowed to have improved upon it. 
But the devils, the enchanters, and the conjurers, act too great 



LECT. XLIV.] TASSO'S JERUSALEM. 529 

a part throughout Tasso's Poem ; and form a sort of dark and 
gloomy machinery, not pleasing to the imagination. The en- 
chanted wood, on which the Nodus, or Intrigue of the Poem, is 
made in a great measure to depend ; the messengers sent in 
quest of Rinalclo, in order that he may break the charm ; their 
being conducted by a Hermit to a Cave in the centre of the 
earth ; the wonderful voyage which they make to the Fortu- 
nate Islands ; and their recovering Rinaldo from the charms 
of Armida and voluptuousness ; are scenes which, though very 
amusing, and described with the highest beauty of Poetry, 
yet must be confessed to carry the marvellous to a degree of 
extravagance. 

In general, that for which Tasso is most liable to censure, is 
a certain romantic vein, which runs through many of the adven- 
tures and incidents of his Poem. The objects which he presents 
to us are always great ; but sometimes too remote from proba- 
bility. He retains somewhat of the taste of his age, which was 
not reclaimed from an extravagant admiration of the stories of 
Knight-Errantry ; stories, which the wild, but rich and agree- 
able imagination of Ariosto, had raised into fresh reputation. 
In apology, however, for Tasso, it may be said, that he is not 
more marvellous and romantic than either Homer or Yirgil. 
All the difference is, that in the one we find the Romance of 
Paganism, in the other that of Chivalry. 

With all the beauties of description, and of Poetical Style, 
Tasso remarkably abounds. Both his descriptions, and his 
Style, are much diversified, and well suited to each other. In 
describing magnificent objects, his Style is firm and majestic; 
when he descends to gay and pleasing ones, such as Erminia's 
Pastoral Retreat in the Seventh Book, and the Arts and Beauty 
of Armida in the Fourth Book, it is soft and insinuating. Both 
those descriptions, which I have mentioned, are exquisite in 
their kind. His battles are animated, and very properly varied 
in the incidents; inferior, however, to Homer's, in point of 
spirit and fire. 

In his sentiments, Tasso is not so happy as in his descriptions. 
It is, indeed, rather by actions, characters, and descriptions, that 
he interests us, than by the sentimental part of the work. He 
is far inferior to Virgil in tenderness. When he aims at being 
pathetic and sentimental in his speeches, he is apt to become 
artificial and strained. 

With regard to points and conceits, with which he has often 
been reproached, the censure has been carried too far. Affec- 
tation is by no means the general character of Tasso's manner, 
which, upon the whole, is masculine, strong, and correct. On 
some occasions, indeed, especially as I just now observed, when 
he seeks to be tender, he degenerates into forced and unnatural 
ideas ; but these are far from being so frequent or common as 
has been supposed. Threescore or fourscore lines retrenched 



530 ARTOSTO'S ORLANDO FURIOSO. [LECT. XLIV. 

from the Poem, would fully clear it, I am persuaded, of all such 
exceptionable passages. 

With Boileau, Dacier, and the other French critics of the 
last age, the humour prevailed of decrying Tasso ; and passed 
from them to some of the English Writers. But one would be 
apt to imagine, they were not much acquainted with Tasso ; or 
at least they must have read him under the influence of strong 
prejudices. For to me it appears clear, that the Jerusalem is, 
in rank and dignity, the third regular Epic Poem in the world ; 
and comes next to the Iliad and -ZEneid. Tasso may be justly 
held inferior to Homer, in simplicity and in fire ; to Virgil, in 
tenderness ; to Milton, in daring sublimity of genius ; but to no 
other he yields in any poetical talents ; and for fertility of inven- 
tion, variety of incidents, expression of characters, richness of 
description and beauty of style, I know no poet, except the 
three just named, that can be compared to him. 

Ariosto, the great rival of Tasso in Italian Poetry, cannot, 
with any propriety, be classed among the Epic Writers. The 
fundamental rule of Epic Composition is, to recount an heroic 
enterprise, and to form it into a regular story. Though there is 
a sort of unity and connexion in the plan of Orlando Furioso, 
yet, instead of rendering this apparent to the Reader, it seems to 
have been the Author's intention to keep it out of view, by the 
desultory manner in which the Poem is carried on, and the per- 
petual interruptions of the several stories before they are finished. 
Ariosto appears to have despised all regularity of plan, and to 
have chosen to give loose reins to a copious and rich, but extra- 
vagant fancy. At the same time, there is so much Epic matter 
in the Orlando Furioso, that it would be improper to pass it by 
without some notice. It unites, indeed, all sorts of Poetry ; 
sometimes comic and satiric ; sometimes light and licentious ; at 
other times, highly heroic, descriptive, and tender. Whatever 
strain the poet assumes, he excels in it. He is always master of 
his subject ; seems to play himself with it, and leaves us some- 
times at a loss to know whether he be serious or in jest. He is 
seldom dramatic ; sometimes, but not often, sentimental ; but in 
narration and description, perhaps no poet ever went beyond 
him. He makes every scene which he describes, and every 
event which he relates, pass before our eyes ; and in his selection 
of circumstances, is eminently picturesque. His style is much 
varied, always suited to the subject, and adorned with a remark- 
ably smooth and melodious Versification. 

As the Italians make their boast of Tasso, so do the Portu- 
guese of Camoens; who was nearly contemporary with Tasso, but 
whose Poem was published before the Jerusalem. The subject 
of it is the first discovery of the East Indies by Vasco de Gama; 
an enterprise splendid in its nature, and extremely interesting 
to the countrymen of Camoens; as it laid the foundation of 
their future wealth and consideration in Europe. The Poem 



LECT. XLIV.] THE LUSIAD OF CAMOENS. 531 

opens with Yasco and his fleet appearing on the ocean, between 
the Island Madagascar, and the coast of Ethiopia. After 
various attempts to land on that coast, they are at last hospitably 
received in the kingdom of Melinda. Yasco, at the desire of the 
King, gives him an account of Europe, recites a poetical History 
of Portugal, and relates all the adventures of the voyage, which 
had preceded the opening of the Poem. This recital takes up 
three Cantos, or Books. It is well imagined ; contains a great 
many poetical beauties ; and has no defect, except that Yasco 
makes an unseasonable display of learning to the African Prince, 
in frequent allusions to the Greek and Roman Histories. Yasco 
and his countrymen afterwards set forth to pursue their voyage. 
The storms and distresses which they encounter; their arrival at 
Calecut, on the Malabar Coast ; their reception and adventures 
in that country, and at last their return homewards, fill up the 
rest of the Poem. 

The whole work is conducted according to the Epic plan. 
Both the subject and the incidents are magnificent ; and joined 
with some wildness and irregularity, there appear in the execu- 
tion much poetic spirit, strong fancy, and bold description ; as 
far as I can judge from translations, without any knowledge of 
the original. There is no attempt towards painting characters 
in the Poem ; Yasco is the hero, and the only personage indeed 
that makes any figure. 

The Machinery of the Lusiad is perfectly extravagant ; not 
only is it formed of a singular mixture of Christian ideas, and 
Pagan mythology ; but it is so conducted, that the Pagan Gods 
appear to be the true Deities, and Christ and the Blessed Yirgin 
to be subordinate Agents. One great scope of the Portuguese 
expedition, our Author informs us, is to propagate the Christian 
faith, and to extirpate Mahometanism. In this religious under- 
taking, the great protector of the Portuguese is Yenus, and their 
great adversary is Bacchus, whose displeasure is excited by 
Yasco's attempting to rival his fame in the Indies. Councils of 
the Gods are held, in which Jupiter is introduced, as foretelling 
the downfall of Mahometanism, and the propagation of the 
Gospel. Yasco, in great distress from a storm, prays most 
seriously to God ; implores the aid of Christ and the Yirgin, 
and begs for such assistance as was given to the Israelites, when 
they were passing through the Bed Sea, and to the Apostle 
Paul, when he was in hazard of shipwreck. In return to this 
prayer, Yenus appears, who, discerning the storm to be the work 
of Bacchus, complains, to Jupiter, and procures the winds to be 
calmed. Such strange and preposterous Machinery, shows how 
much Authors have been misled by the absurd opinion, that 
there could be no Epic Poetry without the Gods of Homer. 
Towards the end of the work, indeed, the Author gives us an 
awkward salvo for his whole Mythology ; making the Goddess 
Thetis inform Yasco, that she, and the rest of the Heathen 



532 THE TELEMACHUS OF EENELON. [LECT. XLIV. 

Deities, are no more than names to describe the operations of 
Providence. 

There is, however, some fine Machinery of a different kind, 
in the Lusiad. The genius of the river Ganges, appearing to 
Emanuel King of Portugal, in a dream, inviting that Prince to 
discover his secret springs, and acquainting him that he was the 
destined monarch for whom the treasures of the East were 
reserved, is a happy idea. But the noblest conception of this 
sort, is in the Fifth Canto, where Vasco is recounting to the 
King of Melinda, all the wonders which he met with in his 
navigation. He tells him, that when the fleet arrived at the 
Cape of Good Hope, which never before had been doubled by 
any navigator, there appeared to them on a sudden, a huge and 
monstrous phantom rising out of the sea, in the midst of tempests 
and thunders, with a head that reached the clouds, and a counte- 
nance that filled them with terror. This was the genius, or 
guardian, of that hitherto unknown ocean. It spoke to them 
with a voice like thunder ; menacing them for invading those 
seas which he had so long possessed undisturbed ; and for daring 
to explore those secrets of the deep, which never had been re- 
vealed to the eye of mortals ; required them to proceed no 
farther ; if they should proceed, foretold all the successive cala- 
mities that were to befall them ; and then, with a mighty noise, 
disappeared. This is one of the most solemn and striking pieces 
of Machinery that ever was employed ; and is sufficient to show 
that Camoens is a Poet, though of an irregular, yet of a bold 
and lofty imagination.* 

In reviewing the Epic Poets, it were unjust to make no men- 
tion of the amiable author of the Adventures of Telemachus. 
His work, though not composed in Yerse, is justly entitled to be 
held a Poem. The measured poetical Prose, in which it is 
written, is remarkably harmonious ; and gives the Style nearly 
as much elevation as the French language is capable of support- 
ing;, even in regular Verse. 

The plan of the work is, in general, well contrived ; and is 
deficient neither in Epic grandeur, nor unity of object. The 
Author has entered with much felicity into the spirit and ideas 
of the Ancient Poets, particularly into the Ancient Mythology, 
which retains more dignity, and makes a better figure in his 
hands, than in those of any other Modern Poet. His descrip- 
tions are rich and beautiful ; especially of the softer and calmer 
scenes, for which the genius of Fenelon was best suited ; such 
as the incidents of pastoral life, the pleasures of virtue, or a 
country flourishing in peace. There is an inimitable sweetness 



* I have made no mention of the Araucano, an Epic Poem in Spanish, composed hy 
Alonzo d'Ercilla, hecause I am unacquainted with the original language, and have not 
seen any translation of it. A full account of it is given by Mr. llayley, in the Notes 
upon his Essay on Epic Poetry. 



LECT. XLIV.] THE TELEMACHUS OF FENELON. 533 

and tenderness in several of the pictures of this kind which he 
has given. 

The best executed part of the work is the first six books, in 
which Telemachus recounts his Adventures to Calypso. The 
Narration, throughout them, is lively and interesting. After- 
wards, especially in the last twelve books, it becomes more 
tedious and languid : and in the warlike adventures which are 
attempted, there is a great defect of vigour. The chief objection 
against this work being classed with Epic Poems, arises from the 
minute details of virtuous policy into which the Author in some 
places enters ; and from the discourses and instructions of Mentor, 
which recur upon us too often ; and too much upon the strain of 
common-place morality. Though these were well suited to the 
main design of the Author, which was to form the mind of a 
young Prince, yet they seem not congruous to the nature of 
Epic Poetry ; the object of which is to improve us by means of 
actions, characters, and sentiments, rather than by delivering 
professed and formal instruction. 

Several of the Epic Poets have described a descent into Hell ; 
and in the prospects they have given us of the invisible world, 
we may observe the gradual refinement of men's notions con- 
cerning a state of future rewards and punishments. The 
descent of Ulysses into Hell, in Homer's Odyssey, presents to 
us a very indistinct and dreary sort of object. The scene is laid 
in the country of the Cimmerians, which is always covered with 
clouds and darkness, at the extremity of the ocean. When the 
spirits of the dead begin to appear, we scarcely know whether 
Ulysses is above ground, or below it. None of the ghosts, 
even of the heroes, appear satisfied with their condition in the 
other world ; and when Ulysses endeavours to comfort Achilles, 
by reminding him of the illustrious figure which he must make 
in those regions, Achilles roundly tells him, that all such speeches 
are idle ; for he would rather be a day-labourer on earth, than 
have the command of all the dead. 

In the Sixth Book of the -ZEneid, we discern a much greater 
refinement of ideas, corresponding to the progress which the 
world had then made in philosophy. The objects there de- 
lineated are both more clear and distinct, and more grand and 
awful. The separate mansions of good and of bad spirits, with 
the punishments of the one, and the employments and happiness 
of the other, are finely described ; and in consistency with the 
most pure morality. But the visit which Fenelon makes 
Telemachus pay to the shades, is much more philosophical still 
than Virgil's. He employs the same fables and the same 
mythology ; but we find the ancient mythology refined by the 
knowledge of the true religion, and adorned with that beautiful 
enthusiasm, for which Fenelon. was so distinguished. His 
account of the happiness of the just is an excellent description 
in the mystic strain ; and very expressive of the genius and 
spirit of the Author, 



534 THE HENRIADE OF VOLTAIRE. [LECT. XLIV. 

Voltaire has given us, in his Henriade, a regular Epic Poem, 
in French verse. In every performance of that celebrated 
Writer, we may expect to find marks of genius ; and, accord- . 
ingly that work discovers, in several places, that boldness in the 
conceptions, and that liveliness and felicity in the expression, for 
which the Author is so remarkably distinguished. Several of 
the comparisons, in particular, which occur in it, are both new 
and happy. But considered upon the whole, I cannot esteem it 
one of his chief productions; and am of opinion, that he has 
succeeded infinitely better in Tragic, than in Epic Composition. 
French Versification seems ill adapted to Epic Poetry. Besides 
its being always fettered by rhyme, the language never assumes 
a sufficient degree of elevation or majesty ; and appears to be 
more capable of expressing the tender in Tragedy, than of 
supporting the sublime in Epic. Hence a feebleness, and some- 
times a prosaic flatness, in the Style of the Henriade ; and 
whether from this, or from some other cause, the Poem often 
languishes : it does not seize the imagination ; nor interest and 
carry the Reader along, with that ardour which ought to be 
inspired by a sublime and spirited Epic Poem. 

The subject of the Henriade, is the triumph of Henry the 
Fourth over the arms of the League. The action of the Poem, 
properly includes only the Siege of Paris. It is an action per- 
fectly Epic in its nature ; great, interesting, and conducted with 
a sufficient regard to unity, and all the other critical rules. But 
it is liable to both the defects which I before remarked in 
Lucan's Pharsalia. It is founded wholly on civil wars; and 
presents to us those odious and detestable objects of massacres 
and assassinations, which throw a gloom over the Poem. It is 
also, like Lucan's, of too recent a date, and comes too much 
within the bounds of well-known history. To remedy this 
last defect, and to remove the appearance of being a mere his- 
torian, Voltaire has chosen to mix fiction with truth. The 
Poem, for instance, opens with a voyage of Henry's to England, 
and an interview between him and Queen Elizabeth; though 
every one knows that Henry never was in England, and that 
these two illustrious personages never met. In facts of such 
public notoriety, a fiction like this shocks the reader, and forms 
an unnatural and ill-sorted mixture with historical truth. The 
Episode was contrived, in order, to give Henry an opportunity 
of recounting the former transactions of the civil wars, in imita- 
tion of the recital which ^Eneas makes to Dido in the .ZEneid. 
But the imitation was injudicious. JEneas might, with pro- 
priety, relate to Dido, transactions of which she was either 
entirely ignorant, or had acquired only an imperfect knowledge 
by flying reports. But Queen Elizabeth could not but be sup- 
posed to be perfectly apprised of all the facts, which the Poet 
makes Henry recite to her. 

In order to embellish his subject, Voltaire has chosen to 



LECT. XLIV.] MILTON'S PARADISE LOST. 535 

employ a great deal of Machinery. But here, also, I am 
obliged to censure his conduct; for the Machinery which he 
chiefly employs, is of the worst kind, and the least suited to an 
Epic Poem, that of allegorical beings. Discord, Cunning, and 
Love, appear as personages, mix with the human actors, and make 
a considerable figure in the intrigue of the Poem. This is con- 
trary to every rule of rational criticism. Ghosts, Angels, and 
Devils have popular belief on their side, and may be conceived 
as existing. But every one knows, that allegorical beings 
are no more than representations of human dispositions and 
passions. They may be employed like other Personifications 
and Figures of Speech ; or in a Poem, that is wholly allegorical, 
they may occupy the chief place. They are there in their 
native and proper region ; but in a Poem which relates to 
human transactions, as I had occasion before to remark, when 
such beings are described as acting along with men, the imagina- 
tion is confounded ; it is divided between phantasms and real- 
ities, and knows not on what to rest. 

Injustice, however, to our Author, I must observe, that the 
Machinery of St. Louis, which he also employs, is of a better 
kind, and possesses real dignity. The finest passage in the 
Henriade, indeed, one of the finest that occurs in any Poem, 
is the prospect of the invisible world, which St. Louis gives 
to Henry in a dream, in the Seventh Canto. Death bringing the 
souls of the departed in succession before God ; their astonishment, 
when, arriving from all different countries and religious sects, 
they are brought into the divine presence ; when they find their 
superstitions to be false, and have the truth unveiled to them ; 
the palace of the Destinies opened to Henry, and the prospect 
of his successors which is there given him; are striking and 
magnificent objects, and do honour to the genius of Voltaire. 

Though some of the Episodes in this Poem are properly 
extended, yet the Narration is, on the whole, too general ; the 
events are too much crowded, and superficially related ; which 
is, doubtless, one cause of the Poem making a faint impression. 
The strain of sentiment which runs through it, is high and 
noble. Religion appears, on every occasion, with great and 
proper lustre ; and the Author breathes that spirit of humanity 
and toleration, which is conspicuous in all his works. 

Milton, of whom it remains now to speak, has chalked out for 
himself a new and very extraordinary road, in Poetry. As soon 
as we open his Paradise Lost, we find ourselves introduced all 
at once into an invisible world, and surrounded with celestial 
and infernal beings. Angels and Devils are not the Machinery, 
but principal actors, in the Poem ; and what, in any other com- 
position, would be the marvellous, is here only the natural 
course of events. A subject so remote from the affairs of this 
world, may furnish ground to those who think such discussions 
material, to bring it into doubt, whether Paradise Lost can be 



536 milton's paradise lost. [lect. xliv. 

properly classed among Epic Poems, By whatever name it is 
to be called, it is, undoubtedly, one of the highest efforts of 
poetical genius ; and in one great characteristic of the Epic 
Poem, Majesty and Sublimity, it is fully equal to any that bear 
that name. 

How far the Author was altogether happy in the choice of 
his subject, may be questioned. It has led him into very diffi- 
cult ground. Had he taken a subject that was more human, 
and less theological ; that was more connected with the occur- 
rences of life ; and afforded a greater display of the characters 
and passjons of men, his Poem would, perhaps, have, to the 
bulk of Readers, been more pleasing and attractive. But the 
subject which he has chosen, suited the daring sublimity of his 
genius.* It is a subject for which Milton alone was fitted ; and 
in the conduct of it, he has shown a stretch both of imagination 
and invention, which is perfectly wonderful. It is astonishing 
how, from the few hints given us in the Sacred Scriptures, 
he was able to raise so complete and regular a structure ; and to 
fill his Poem with such a variety of incidents. Dry and harsh 
passages sometimes occur. The Author appears, upon some 
occasions, a Metaphysician and a Divine, rather than a Poet. 
But the general tenor of his work is interesting ; he seizes 
and fixes the imagination ; engages, elevates, and affects us as 
we proceed, which is always a sure test of merit in an Epic 
Composition. The artful change of his objects ; the scene 
laid now in Earth, now in Hell, and now in Heaven, affords 
a sufficient diversity ; while unity of plan is, at the same time, 
perfectly supported. We have still life, and calm scenes, in the 
employments of Adam and Eve in Paradise ; and we have busy 
scenes, and great actions, in the enterprise of Satan, and the 
wars of the Angels. The innocence, purity, and amiableness of 
our first parents, opposed to the pride and ambition of Satan, 
furnishes a happy contrast, that reigns throughout the whole 
Poem ; only the Conclusion, as I before observed, is too tragic 
for Epic Poetry. 

The nature of the subject did not admit any great display 
of characters ; but such as could be introduced, are supported 
with much propriety. Satan, in particular, makes a striking 
figure, and is indeed the best drawn character in the Poem. 
Milton has not described him such as we suppose an infernal 
spirit to be. He has, more suitably to his own purpose, given 
him a human, that is a mixed character, not altogether void 
of some good qualities. He is brave and faithful to his troops. 

* " He seems to have been well acquainted with his own genius, and to know what 
it was that nature had bestowed upon him more bountifully than upon others ; the 
power of displaying the vast, illuminating the splendid, enforcing the awful, darkening 
the gloomy, and aggravating the dreadful. He therefore chose a subject, on which too 
much could not be said ; on which he might tire his fancy, without the censure of ex- 
travagance." — Dr. Johnson's Life of Milton. 



lect. xliy.] milton's paradise lost. 537 

In the midst of his impiety, he is not without remorse. He 
is even touched with pity for our first parents; and justifies 
himself in his design against them from the necessity of his 
situation. He is actuated by ambition and resentment, rather 
than by pure malice. In short, Milton's Satan is no worse 
than many a conspirator or factious chief that makes a figure 
in history. The different characters of Beelzebub, Moloch, 
Belial, are exceedingly well painted in those eloquent speeches 
which they make in the Second Book. The good Angels 
though always described with dignity and propriety, have 
more uniformity than the infernal Spirits in their appearance ; 
though among them, too, the dignity of Michael, the mild 
condescension of Raphael, and the tried fidelity of Abdiel, 
form proper characteristical distinctions. The attempt to de- 
scribe God Almighty himself, and to recount dialogues be- 
tween the Father and the Son, was too bold and arduous, and 
is that wherein our Poet, as was to have been expected, has 
been most unsuccessful. With regard to human characters; 
the innocence of our first parents, and their love, are finely and 
delicately painted. In some of his speeches to Raphael and 
to Eve, Adam is, perhaps, too knowing and refined for 
his situation. Eve is more distinctly characterised. Her 
gentleness, modesty, and frailty, mark very expressively a 
female character. 

Milton's great and distinguishing excellence is, his sublimity. 
In this, perhaps, he excels Homer; as there is no doubt of 
his leaving Virgil, and every other Poet, far behind him. 
Almost the whole of the First and Second Books of Paradise 
Lost are continued instances of the sublime. The prospect of 
Hell and of the fallen Host, the appearance and behaviour of 
Satan, the consultation of the infernal Chiefs, and Satan's flight 
through Chaos to the borders of this world, discover the 
most lofty ideas that ever entered into the conception of any 
Poet. In the Sixth Book, also, there is much grandeur, par- 
ticularly in the appearance of the Messiah ; though some parts 
of that book are censurable ; and the witticisms of the Devils 
upon the effect of their artillery, form an intolerable blemish. 
Milton's sublimity is of a different kind from that of Homer. 
Homer's is generally accompanied with fire and impetuosity ; 
Milton's possesses more of a calm and amazing grandeur. 
Homer warms and hurries us along ; Milton fixes us in a state 
of astonishment and elevation. Homer's sublimity appears 
most in the description of actions ; Milton's, in that of wonder- 
ful and stupendous objects. 

But though Milton is most distinguished for his sublimity, 
yet there is also much of the beautiful, the tender, and the 
pleasing, in many parts of his work. When the scene is laid in 
Paradise, the imagery is always of the most gay and smiling 
kind. His descriptions show an uncommonly fertile imagination ; 

o O 






538 MILTON'S PARADISE LOST. [LECT. XLIV. 

and in his similes, he is, for the most part, remarkably happy. 
They are seldom improperly introduced ; seldom either low or 
trite. They generally present to us images taken from the 
sublime or the beautiful class of objects; if they have any 
faults, it is their alluding too frequently to matters of learning, 
and to fables of antiquity. In the latter part of Paradise Lost, 
there must be confessed to be a falling off. With the fall of our 
first parents, Milton's genius seems to decline. Beauties, how- 
ever, there are, in the concluding Books, of the tragic kind. 
The remorse and contrition of the guilty pair, and their lamen- 
tations over Paradise, when they are obliged to leave it, are 
very moving. The last Episode of the Angels, showing Adam 
the fate of his posterity, is happily imagined ; but, in many 
places, the execution is languid. 

Milton's Language and Versification have high merit. His 
style is full of majesty, and wonderfully adapted to his subject. 
His blank verse is harmonious and diversified, and affords the 
most complete example of the elevation which our language 
is capable of attaining by the force of numbers. It does not 
flow, like the French Yerse, in tame, regular, uniform melody, 
which soon tires the ear ; but is sometimes smooth and flowing, 
sometimes rough ; varied in its cadence, and intermixed with 
discords, so as to suit the strength and freedom of Epic Compo- 
sition. Neglected and prosaic lines, indeed, we sometimes meet 
with ; but, in a work so long, and in the main so harmonious, 
these may be forgiven. 

On the whole, Paradise Lost is a Poem that abounds with 
beauties of every kind, and that justly entitles its Author to a 
degree of fame not inferior to any Poet ; though it must be also 
admitted to have many inequalities. It is the lot of almost 
every high and daring genius, not to be uniform and correct. 
Milton is too frequently theological and metaphysical ; some- 
times harsh in his language ; often too technical in his words, 
and affectedly ostentatious of his learning. Many of his faults 
must be attributed to the pedantry of the age in which he lived. 
He discovers a vigour, a grasp of genius equal to every thing 
that is great ; if at some times he falls much below himself, at 
other times he rises above every Poet, of the ancient or modern 
world. 



LECT. XL V.] TRAGEDY. 539 

LECTUKE XLV. 

DRAMATIC POETRY TRAGEDY. 

Dramatic Poetry has, among all civilized nations, been con- 
sidered as a rational and useful entertainment, and judged 
worthy of careful and serious discussion, According as it is 
employed upon the light and the gay, or upon the grave and 
affecting incidents of human life, it divides itself into the two 
forms of Comedy or Tragedy. But as great and serious objects 
command more attention than little and ludicrous ones ; as the 
fall of a Hero interests the public more than the marriage of a 
private person ; Tragedy has been always held a more dignified 
entertainment than Comedy. The one rests upon the high 
passions, the virtues, crimes, and sufferings of mankind ; the 
other on their humours, follies, and pleasures. Terror and pity 
are the great instruments of the former ; ridicule is the sole 
instrument of the latter. Tragedy shall therefore be the object 
of our fullest discussion. This and the following lecture shall be 
employed on it ; after which I shall treat of what is peculiar to 
Comedy. 

Tragedy, considered as an exhibition of the characters and 
behaviour of men in some of the most trying and critical situa- 
tions of life, is a noble idea of Poetry. It is a direct imitation 
of human manners and actions. For it does not, like the Epic 
Poem, exhibit characters by the narration and description of 
the Poet ; but the Poet disappears ; and the personages them- 
selves are set before us, acting and speaking what is suitable to 
their characters. Hence, no kind of writing is so great a trial 
of the Author's profound knowledge of the human heart. No 
kind of writing has so much power, when happily executed, to 
raise the strongest emotions. It is, or ought to be, a mirror in 
which we behold ourselves, and the evils to which we are 
exposed ; a faithful copy of the human passions, with all their 
direful effects, when they are suffered to become extravagant. 

As Tragedy is a high and distinguished species of Composi- 
tion, so also, in its general strain and spirit, it is favourable to 
virtue. Such power hath virtue happily over the human mind, 
by the wise and gracious constitution of our nature, that as 
admiration cannot be raised in Epic Poetry, so neither in Tragic 
Poetry can our passions be strongly moved, unless virtuous 
emotions be awakened within us. Every Poet finds, that it is 
impossible to interest us in any character, without representing 
that character as worthy and honourable, though it may not be 
perfect : and that the great secret for raising indignation, is to 
paint the person who is to be the object of it, in the colours of 
vice and depravity. He may, indeed, nay, he must, represent 

o o 2 



540 TRAGEDY. [LECT. XLV. 

the virtuous as sometimes unfortunate, because this is often the 
case in real life ; but he will always study to engage our hearts 
in their behalf; and though they may be described as unpros- 
perous, yet there is no instance of a Tragic Poet representing 
vice as fully triumphant and happy in the catastrophe of the 
Piece. Even when bad men succeed in their designs, punish- 
ment is made always to attend them ; and misery of one kind 
or other is shown to be unavoidably connected with guilt. 
Love and admiration of virtuous characters, compassion for the 
injured and the distressed, and indignation against the authors of 
their sufferings, are the sentiments most generally excited by 
Tragedy. And, therefore, though Dramatic Writers may some- 
times, like other Writers, be guilty of improprieties, though 
they may fail of placing virtue precisely in the clue point of 
light, yet no reasonable person can deny Tragedy to be a moral 
species of Composition. Taking Tragedies complexly, I am 
fully persuaded, that the impressions left by them upon the 
mind, are, on the whole, favourable to virtue and good disposi- 
tions. And, therefore, the zeal which some pious men have 
shown against the entertainments of the Theatre must rest only 
upon the abuse of Comedy ; which, indeed, has frequently been 
so great as to justify very severe censures against it. 

The account which Aristotle gives of the design of Tragedy 
is, that it is intended to purge our passions by means of pity 
and terror. This is somewhat obscure. Various senses have 
been put upon his words, and much altercation has followed 
among his commentators. Without entering into any contro- 
versy upon this head, the intention of Tragedy may, I think, 
be more shortly and clearly defined, to improve our virtuous 
sensibility. If an Author interests us in behalf of virtue, forms 
us to compassion for the distressed, inspires us with proper 
sentiments, on beholding the vicissitudes of life, and, by means 
of the concern which he raises for the misfortunes of others, 
leads us to guard against errors in our own conduct, he accom- 
plishes all the moral purposes of Tragedy. 

In order to this end, the first requisite is, that he choose some 
moving and interesting story, and that he conduct it in a natural 
and probable manner. Por we must observe, that the natural 
and the probable must always be the basis of Tragedy ; and are 
infinitely more important there, than in Epic Poetry. The 
object of the Epic Poet is to excite our admiration by the recital 
of heroic adventures ; and a much slighter degree of probability 
is required when admiration is concerned, than when the tender 
passions are intended to be moved. The imagination, in the 
former case, is exalted, accommodates itself to the Poet's idea, 
and can admit the marvellous without being shocked. But 
Tragedy demands a stricter imitation of the life and actions of 
men. Por the end which it pursues is, not so much to elevate 
imagination, as to affect the heart ; and the heart always judges 



LECT. XL V.] TRAGEDY. ■ 541 

more nicely than the imagination, of what is probable. Passion 
can be raised, only by making the impressions of nature, and of 
truth, upon the mind. By introducing, therefore, any wild or 
romantic circumstances into his Story, the Poet never fails to 
check passion in its growth, and, of course, disappoints the main 
effect of Tragedy. 

This principle, which is founded on the clearest reason, 
excludes from Tragedy all Machinery, or fabulous intervention 
of the Gods. Ghosts have, indeed, maintained their place ; as 
being strongly founded on popular belief, and peculiarly suited 
to heighten the terror of Tragic scenes. But all unravellings of 
the plot, which turn upon the interposition of Deities, such as 
Euripides employs in several of his plays, are much to be con- 
demned ; both as clumsy and inartificial, and as destroying the 
probability of the Stor}^ This mixture of Machinery, with the 
Tragic action, is undoubtedly a blemish in the Ancient Theatre. 

In order to promote that impression of probability which is 
so necessary to the success of Tragedy, some Critics have 
required, that the subject should never be a pure fiction invented 
by the Poet, but built on real history, or known facts. Such, 
indeed, were generally, if not always, the subjects of the Greek 
Tragedians. But I cannot hold this to be a matter of any great 
consequence. It is proved, by experience, that a fictitious tale, 
if properly conducted, will melt the heart as much as any real 
history. In order to our being moved, it is not necessary that 
the events related did actually happen, provided they be such as 
might easily have happened in the ordinary course of nature. 
Even when Tragedy borrows its materials from History, it 
mixes many a fictitious circumstance. The greatest part of 
Headers neither know, nor inquire, what is fabulous, or 
what is historical, in the subject. They attend only to 
what is probable, and are touched by events which resemble 
nature. Accordingly, some of the most pathetic Tragedies are 
entirely fictitious in the subject ; such as Voltaire's Zaire and 
Alzire, the Orphan, Douglas, the Fair Penitent, and several 
others. 

Whether the subject be of the real or feigned kind, that 
on which most depends for rendering the incidents in a Tragedy 
probable, and by means of their probability affecting, is the con- 
duct or management of the Story, and the connexion of its 
several parts. To regulate this conduct, Critics have laid down 
the famous rule of the three Unities ; the importance of which 
it will be necessary to discuss. But, in order to do this with 
more advantage, it will be necessary, that we first look back- 
wards, and trace the rise and origin of Tragedy, which will give 
light to several things relating to the subject. 

Tragedy, like other arts, was, in its beginning, rude and im- 
perfect. Among the Greeks, from whom our Dramatic Enter- 
tainments are derived, the origin of Tragedy was no other than 






542 TKAGEDY. [LECT. XLV. 

the Song which was wont to be sung at the festival of Bacchus. 
A goat was the sacrifice offered to that God ; after the sacrifice, 
the Priests, with the company that joined them, sung hymns in 
honour of Bacchus ; and from the name of the victim, rpayog a 
Goat joined with wSrj a Song, undoubtedly arose the word 
Tragedy. 

These Hymns, or Lyric Poems, were sung sometimes by the 
whole company, sometimes by separate bands, answering alter- 
nately to each other ; making what we call a Chorus, with its 
Strophes and Antistrophes. In order to throw some variety 
into this entertainment, and to relieve the Singers, it was 
thought proper to introduce a person who, between the Songs, 
should make a recitation in Verse. Thespis, who lived about 
536 years before the Christian aera, made this innovation; and 
as it was relished, -ZEschylus, who came 50 years after him, and 
who is properly the father of Tragedy, went a step farther, in- 
troduced a Dialogue between two persons, or actors, in which he 
contrived to interweave some interesting story, and brought his 
actors on a Stage, adorned with proper scenery and decorations. 
All that these actors recited, was called Episode, or additional 
Song ; and the Songs of the Chorus were made to relate no 
longer to Bacchus, their original subject, but to the story in 
which the actors were concerned. This began to give the 
Drama a regular form, which was soon after brought to per- 
fection by Sophocles and Euripides. It is remarkable, in how 
short a space of time Tragedy grew up among the Greeks, from 
the rudest beginnings to its most perfect state. For Sophocles, 
the greatest and most correct of all the Tragic Poets, flourished 
only 22 years after ^Eschylus, and was little more than 70 years 
posterior to Thespis. 

From the account which I have now given, it appears that the 
Chorus was the basis or foundation of the ancient Tragedy. 
It was not an ornament added to it ; or a contrivance de- 
signed to render it more perfect ; but, in truth, the Dramatic 
Dialogue was an addition to the Chorus, which was the original 
entertainment. In process of time, the Chorus, from being 
the principal, became only the accessory in Tragedy; till 
at last, in Modern Tragedy, it has disappeared altogether; 
which forms the chief distinction between the Ancient and the 
Modern Stage. 

This has given rise to a question much agitated between the 
partizans of the Ancients and the Moderns, whether the Drama 
has gained, or has suffered, by the abolition of the Chorus ? It 
must be admitted, that the Chorus tended to render Tragedy 
both more magnificent and more instructive and moral. It was 
always the most sublime and poetical part of the work ; and 
being carried on by singing, and accompanied with music, it 
must, no doubt, have diversified the Entertainment greatly, and 
added to its splendour. The Chorus, at the same time, conveyed 



LECT. XL V.] TEAGEDY. 543 

constant lessons of virtue. It was composed of such persons as 
might most naturally be supposed present on the occasion ; in- 
habitants of the place where the scene was laid, often the com- 
panions of some of the principal actors, and therefore, in some 
degree, interested in the issue of the action. This company, 
which, in the days of Sophocles, was restricted to the number of 
fifteen persons, was constantly on the Stage, during the whole 
performance, mingled in discourse with the actors, entered into 
their concerns, suggested counsel and advice to them, moralised 
on all the incidents that were going on, and during the intervals 
of the action, sung their Odes, or Songs, in which they 
addressed the Gods, prayed for success to the virtuous, lamented 
their misfortunes, and delivered many religious and moral 
sentiments. # 

But, notwithstanding the advantages which were obtained 
by means of the Chorus, the inconveniences on the other side 
are so great, as to render the modern practice of excluding 
the Chorus far more eligible upon the whole. For if a natural 
and probable imitation of human actions be the chief end 
of the Drama, no other persons ought to be brought on the 
Stage, than those who are necessary to the Dramatic action. 
The introduction of an adventitious company of persons, who 
have but a slight concern in the business of the Play, is unna- 
tural in itself, embarrassing to the Poet, and, though it may 
render the spectacle splendid, tends, undoubtedly, to render 
it more cold and uninteresting, because more unlike a real 
transaction. The mixture of Music or Song, on the part of 
the Chorus, with the Dialogue carried on by the Actors, is 
another unnatural circumstance, removing the representation 
still farther from the resemblance of life. The Poet, besides, 

* The office of the Chorus is thus described by Horace : 

Actoris partes Chorus, officiumque virile 
Defendat ; neu quid medios intercinat actus, 
Quod non proposito conducat, et haereat apte. 
Ille bonis faveatque, et concilietur amieis, 
Et regat iratos, et amet peccare timentes : 
Ille dapes laudet mensae brevis ; ille salubrem 
Justitiam, legesque, et apertis otia portis. 
J lie tegat commissa ; deosque precetur, et oret 
Ut redeat miseris, abeat fortuna superbis. 

De Art. Poet. 193. 
The Chorus must support an actor's part, 
Defend the virtuous, and advise with art ; 
Govern the choleric, and the proud appease, 
And the short feasts of frugal tables praise j 
Applaud the justice of well-governed states, 
And peace triumphant with her open gates. 
Intrusted secrets let them ne'er betray, 
But to the righteous Gods with ardour pray, 
That fortune, with returning smiles, may bless 
Afflicted worth, and impious pride depress ; 
Yet let their songs with apt coherence join, 
Promote the plot, and aid the j ust design. 

Francis. 



544 TRAGEDY. [LECT. XLV. 

is subjected to innumerable difficulties in so contriving his 
plan, that the presence of the Chorus, during all the incidents 
of the play, shall consist with any probability. The scene 
must be constantly, and often absurdly, laid in some public 
place, that the Chorus may be supposed to have free access to 
it. To many things that ought to be transacted in private, 
the Chorus must ever be witnesses ; they must be the confe- 
derates of both parties, who come successively upon the Stage, 
and who are, perhaps, conspiring against each other. In short, 
the management of a Chorus is an unnatural confinement to 
a Poet ; it requires too great a sacrifice of probability in the 
conduct of the action ; it has too much the air of a theatrical 
decoration, to be consistent with that appearance of reality, 
which a Poet must ever preserve in order to move our Pas- 
sions. The origin of Tragedy among the Greeks, we have 
seen, was a choral Song, or Hymn to the Gods. There is 
no wonder, therefore, that on the Greek Stage it so long main- 
tained possession. But it may confidently, I think, be as- 
serted, that, if, instead of the Dramatic Dialogue having been 
superadded to the Chorus, the Dialogue itself had been the first 
invention, the Chorus would, in that case, never have been 
thought of. 

One use, I am of opinion, might still be made of the Ancient 
Chorus, and would be a considerable improvement of the 
Modern Theatre; if, instead of that unmeaning, and often im- 
properly chosen Music, with which the Audience is enter- 
tained in the intervals between the Acts, a Chorus were then 
to be introduced, whose Music and Songs, though forming no 
part of the Play, should have a relation to the incidents of 
the preceding act, and to the dispositions which those incidents 
are presumed to have awakened in the Spectators. By this 
means the tone of passion would be kept up without inter- 
ruption ; and all the good effects of the ancient Chorus might be 
preserved, for inspiring proper sentiments, and for increasing 
the morality of the Performance, without those inconveniences 
which arose from the Chorus forming a constituent part of 
the Play, and mingling unseasonably, and unnaturally, with the 
personages of the Drama. 

After the view which we have taken of the rise of Tragedy, 
and of the nature of the Ancient Chorus, with the advantages 
and inconveniences attending it, our way is cleared for examin- 
ing, with more advantage, the Three Unities of Action, Place 
and Time, which have generally been considered as essential to 
the proper conduct of the Dramatic Fable. 

Of these three, the first, Unity of Action, is, beyond doubt, 
far the most important. In treating of Epic Poetry, I have 
already explained the nature of it ; as consisting in a relation 
which all the incidents introduced bear to some design or effect, 
so as to combine naturally into one whole. This unity of sub- 



LECT. XLV.] TRAGEDY. 545 

ject is still more essential to Tragedy, than it is to Epic Poetry. 
For a multiplicity of Plots, or Actions, crowded together into so 
short a space as Tragedy allows, must, of necessity, distract 
the attention, and prevent passion from rising to any height. 
Nothing, therefore, is worse conduct in a Tragic Poet, than 
to carry on two independent actions in the same Play; the 
effect of which is, that the mind being suspended and divided 
between them, cannot give itself up entirely either to the one 
or the other. There may, indeed, be Underplots; that is, 
the persons introduced, may have different pursuits and de- 
signs ; but the Poet's art must be shown in managing these, 
so as to render them subservient to the main action. They 
ought to be connected with the catastrophe of the Play, and 
to conspire in bringing it forward. If there be any intrigue 
which stands separate and independent, and which may be 
left out without affecting the unravelling of the Plot, we may 
always conclude this to be a faulty violation of Unity. Such 
Episodes are not permitted here, as in Epic Poetry. 

We have a clear example of this defect in Mr. Addison's 
Cato. The subject of this Tragedy is, the death of Cato ; 
and a very noble personage Cato is, and supported by the 
Author with much dignity. But all the love scenes in the 
Play ; the passion of Cato's two sons for Lucia, and that of Juba 
for Cato's daughter, are mere Episodes ; have no connexion 
with the principal action, and no effect upon it. The Author 
thought his subject too barren in incidents, and in order to 
diversify it, he has given us, as it were, by the bye, a history of 
the amours that were going on in Cato's fantily ; by which he 
hath both broken the unity of his subject, and formed a very un- 
seasonable junction of gallantry, with the high sentiments, and 
public- spirited passions which predominate in other parts, and 
which the Play was chiefly designed to display. 

We must take care not to confound the Unity of the Action 
with the Simplicity of the Plot. Unity and Simplicity import 
different things in Dramatic composition. The plot is said to 
be Simple, when a small number of incidents are introduced 
into it. But it may be implex, as the Critics term it, that is, 
it may include a considerable number of persons and events, and 
yet not be deficient in Unity; provided all the incidents be 
made to tend towards the principal object of the Play, and be 
properly connected with it. All the Greek Tragedies not only 
maintain Unity in the Action, but are remarkably simple in the 
Plot ; to such a degree, indeed, as sometimes to appear to us too 
naked, and destitute of interesting events. In the CEdipus 
Coloneus, for instance, of Sophocles, the whole subject is no 
more than this : GEdipus, blind and miserable, wanders to 
Athens, and wishes to die there ; Creon and his son Polynices, 
arrive at the same time, and endeavour, separately, to persuade 
the old man to return to Thebes, each with a view to his 



546 TRAGEDY. [LECT. XLV. 

own interest; he will not go; Theseus, the King of Athens, 
protects him, and the Play ends with his death. In the Philoc- 
tetes of the same Author, the Plot, or Fable, is nothing more 
than Ulysses, and the son of Achilles, studying to persuade the 
diseased Philoctetes to leave his uninhabited island, and go with 
them to Troy; which he refuses to do, till Hercules, whose 
arrows he possessed, descends from heaven and commands him. 
Yet these simple, and seemingly barren subjects, are wrought 
up with so much art by Sophocles, as to become very tender 
and affecting. 

Among the Moderns, much greater variety of events has 
been admitted into Tragedy. It has become more the theatre 
of passion than it was among the Ancients. A greater display 
of characters is attempted ; more intrigue and action are 
carried on ; our curiosity is more awakened, and more interest- 
ing situations arise. This variety is, upon the whole, an im- 
provement on Tragedy ; it renders the entertainment both more 
animated and more instructive, and when kept within due 
bounds, may be perfectly consistent with unity of subject. But 
the Poet must, at the same time, beware of not deviating too far 
from simplicity in the construction of his Fable. For if he over- 
charges it with action and intrigue, it becomes perplexed and 
embarrassed; and, by consequence, loses much of its effect. 
Congreve's " Mourning Bride," a Tragedy otherwise far from 
being void of merit, fails in this respect ; and may be given as 
an instance of one standing in perfect opposition to the sim- 
plicity of the ancient Plots. The incidents succeed one another 
too rapidly. The play is too full of business. It is difficult for 
the mind to follow and comprehend the whole series of events ; 
and what is the greatest fault of all, the Catastrophe, which 
ought always to be plain and simple, is brought about in a 
manner too artificial and intricate. 

Unity of Action must not only be studied in the general con- 
struction of the Fable, or Plot, but must regulate the several 
acts and scenes, into which the Play is divided. 

The division of every Play, into five acts, has no other found- 
ation than common practice, and the authority of Horace : 

Neve minor, neu sit quinto productior actu 

Fabula.* De Arte Poet. 

It is a division purely arbitrary. There is nothing in the 
nature of the Composition which fixes this number rather than 
any other ; and it had been much better if no such number had 
been ascertained, but every play had been allowed to divide 
itself into as many parts, or intervals, as the subject naturally 
pointed out. On the Greek Stage, whatever may have been 

* If you would have your Play deserve success, 

Give it Five Acts complete, nor more, nor less. Francis. 



LECT. XL V.] TKAGEDY. 547 

the case on the Roman, the division by Acts was totally un- 
known. The word, Act, never once occurs in Aristotle's 
Poetics, in which he defines exactly every part of the Drama, 
and divides it into the beginning, the middle, and the end ; or in 
his own words, into the Prologue, the Episode, and the Exode. 
The Greek Tragedy was, indeed, one continued representation, 
from beginning to end. The Stage was never empty, nor the 
curtain let fall. But at certain intervals, when the Actors 
retired, the Chorus continued and sung. Neither do these 
Songs of the Chorus divide the Greek Tragedies into five 
portions, similar to our Acts ; though some of the Commen- 
tators have endeavoured to force them into this office. But it is 
plain, that the intervals at which the Chorus sung, are ex- 
tremely unequal and irregular, suited to the occasion and the 
subject : and would divide the Play sometimes into three, some- 
times into seven or eight Acts.* 

As practice has now established a different plan on the Modern 
Stage, has divided every Play into Five Acts, and made a total 
pause in the representation at the end of each Act, the Poet 
must be careful that this pause shall fall in a proper place; 
where there is a natural pause in the Action, and where, if the 
imagination has anything to supply, that is not represented on 
the Stage, it may be supposed to have been transacted during 
the interval. 

The first Act ought to contain a clear exposition of the sub- 
ject. It ought to be so managed as to awaken the curiosity of 
the Spectators ; and, at the same time, to furnish them with 
materials for understanding the sequel. It should make them 
acquainted with the personages who are to appear, with their 
several views and interests, and with the situation of affairs at 
the time when the Play commences. A striking Introduction, 
such as the first speech of Almeria, in the Mourning Bride, and 
that of Lady Randolph, in Douglas, produces a happy effect : 
but this is what the subject will not always admit. In the ruder 
times of Dramatic Writing, the exposition of the subject was 
wont to be made by a Prologue, or by a single Actor appearing, 
and giving full and direct information to the Spectators. Some 
of -ZEschylus's and Euripides's Plays are opened in this manner. 
But such an introduction is extremely inartificial, and therefore 
is now totally abolished, and the subject made to open itself 
by conversation, among the first Actors who are brought upon 
the Stage. 

During the course of the Drama, in the Second, Third, and 
Fourth Acts, the Plot should gradually thicken. The great 
object which the Poet ought here to have in view, is, by inter- 
esting us in his story, to keep our passions always awake. As 
soon as he allows us to languish, there is no more tragic merit. 

* See the dissertation prefixed to Franklin's Translation of Sophocles. 



548 TRAGEDY. [LECT. XLV. 

He should, therefore, introduce no personages but such as are 
necessary for carrying on the action. He should contrive to 
place those whom he finds it proper to introduce, in the most 
interesting situations. He should have no scenes of idle conver- 
sation or mere declamation. The Action of the Play ought to 
be always advancing, and as it advances, the suspense, and the 
concern of the Spectators, to be raised more and more. This is 
the great excellency of Shakspeare, that his scenes are full of 
Sentiment and Action, never of mere discourse ; whereas, it is 
often a fault of the best French Tragedians, that they allow the 
Action to languish for the sake of a long and artful Dialogue. 
Sentiment, Passion, Pity, and Terror, should reign throughout 
a Tragedy. Every thing should be full of movements. An 
useless incident, or an unnecessary conversation, weakens the 
interest which we take in the Action, and renders us cold and 
inattentive. 

The fifth Act is the seat of the Catastrophe, or the unravelling 
of the Plot, in which we always expect the art and genius of the 
Poet to be most fully displayed. The first rule concerning it, is, 
that it be brought about by probable and natural means. Hence 
all unravellings which turn upon disguised habits, rencontres by 
night, mistakes of one person for another, and other such The- 
atrical and Romantic circumstances, are to be condemned as 
faulty. In the next place, the Catastrophe ought always to be 
simple ; to depend on few events, and to include but few persons. 
Passion never rises so high when it is divided among many 
objects, as when it is directed towards one or a few. And it is 
still more checked, if the incidents be so complex and intricate, 
that the understanding is put on the stretch to trace them, when 
the heart should be delivered up to emotion. The Catastrophe 
of the Mourning Bride, as I formerly hinted, offends against 
both these rules. In the last place, the Catastrophe of a Tragedy 
ought to be the reign of pure sentiment and passion. In pro- 
portion as it approaches, every thing should warm and glow. 
No long discourses ; no cold reasonings ; no parade of genius in 
the midst of those solemn and awful events, that close some of 
the great revolutions of human fortune. There, if any where, 
the Poet must be simple, serious, pathetic ; and speak no lan- 
guage but that of nature. 

The Ancients were fond of unravellings, which turned upon 
what is called, an " Anagnorisis," or a discovery of some per- 
son to be different from what he was taken to be. When such 
discoveries are artfully conducted, and produced in critical 
situations, they are extremely striking. Such as that famous 
one in Sophocles, which makes the whole subject of his CEdi- 
bus Tyrannus, and which is, undoubtedly, the fullest of sus- 
pense, agitation, and terror, that ever was exhibited on any 
Stage. Among the moderns, two of the most distinguished 
Ajiagnorises, are those contained in Voltaire's Merope, and 



LECT. XLY.] TRAGEDY. 549 

Mr. Home's Douglas : both of which are great masterpieces of 
the kind. 

It is not essential to the catastrophe of a Tragedy, that it 
should end unhappily. In the course of the Play there may be 
sufficient agitation and distress, and many tender emotions raised 
by the sufferings and dangers of the virtuous, though, in the end, 
good men are rendered successful. The Tragic spirit, therefore, 
does not want scope upon this system ; and, accordingly, the 
Athalie of Racine, and some of Voltaire's finest Plays, such as 
Alzire, Merope, and the Orphan of China, with some few English 
Tragedies, likewise, have a fortunate conclusion. But, in general, 
the spirit of Tragedy, especially of English Tragedy, leans more 
to the side of leaving the impression of virtuous sorrow full and 
strong upon the heart. 

A question, intimately connected with this subject, and which 
has employed the speculations of several philosophical Critics, 
naturally occurs here : How it comes to pass that those emotions 
of sorrow which Tragedy excites, afford any gratification to the 
mind ? For, is not sorrow, in its nature, a painful passion ? Is 
not real distress often occasioned to the Spectators, by the Dra- 
matic Representations at which they assist? Do we not see 
their tears flow ? and yet while the impression of what they have 
suffered remains upon their minds, they again assemble in crowds, 
to renew the same distresses. The question is not without diffi- 
culty, and various solutions of it have been proposed by ingenious 
men.* The most plain and satisfactory account of the matter, 
appears to me to be the following : By the wise and gracious 
constitution of our nature, the exercise of all our social pas- 
sions is attended with pleasure. Nothing is more pleasing and 
grateful, than love and friendship. Wherever man takes a strong 
interest in the concerns of his fellow creatures, an internal satis- 
faction is made to accompany the feeling. Pity, or compassion, 
in particular, is, for wise ends, appointed to be one of the 
strongest instincts of our frame, and is attended with a peculiar 
attractive power. It is an affection which cannot but be pro- 
ductive of some distress, on account of the sympathy with the 
sufferers, which it necessarily involves. But, as it includes bene- 
volence and friendship, it partakes, at the same time, of the 
agreeable and pleasing nature of those affections. The heart is 
warmed by kindness and humanity, at the same moment at which 
it is afflicted by the distresses of those with whom it sympathises ; 
and the pleasure arising from those kind emotions, prevails so 
much in the mixture, and so far counterbalances the pain, as to 
render the state of the mind, upon the whole, agreeable. At the 
same time, the immediate pleasure, which always goes along 

* See Dr. Campbell's Philosophy of Rhetoric, Book I. ch. xi. where an account is 
given of the hypotheses of different Critics on this subject ; and where one is proposed, 
with which, in the main, I agree. — See also Lord Kaimes's Essays on the Principles of 
Morality, Essay I. And Mr. David Hume's Essay on Tragedy. 



550 TRAGEDY. [LECT. XLV. 

with the operation of the benevolent and sympathetic affec- 
tions, derives an addition from the approbation of our own 
minds. We are pleased with ourselves for feeling as we 
ought, and for entering, with proper sorrow, into the concerns 
of the afflicted. In Tragedy, besides, other adventitious cir- 
cumstances concur to diminish the painful part of sympathy, 
and to increase the satisfaction attending it. We are, in some 
measure, relieved, by thinking that the cause of our distress 
is feigned, not real ; and we are also gratified by the charms of 
Poetry, the propriety of Sentiment and Language, and the beauty 
of Action. From the concurrence of these causes, the pleasure 
which we receive from Tragedy, notwithstanding the distress it 
occasions, seems to me to be accounted for in a satisfactory man- 
ner. At the same time, it is to be observed, that, as there is 
always a mixture of pain in the pleasure, that pain is capable of 
being so much heightened, by the representation of incidents 
extremely direful, as to shock our feelings, and to render us 
averse, either to the reading of such Tragedies, or to the beholding 
of them upon the Stage. 

Having now spoken of the conduct of the subject throughout 
the Acts, it is also necessary to take notice of the conduct of the 
several Scenes which make up the Acts of a Play. 

The entrance of a new personage upon the Stage, forms, what 
is called a New Scene. These Scenes, or successive conversa- 
tions, should be closely linked and connected with each other ; 
and much of the Art of Dramatic Composition is shown in main- 
taining this connection. Two rules are necessary to be observed 
for this purpose. 

The first is, that during the course of one Act, the Stage 
should never be left vacant, though but for a single moment; 
that is, all the persons who have appeared in one Scene, or con- 
versation, should never go off together, and be succeeded by a 
new set of persons appearing in the next Scene, independent of 
the former. This makes a gap, or total interruption in the 
representation, which, in effect, puts an end to that Act. For 
whenever the Stage is evacuated, the Act is closed. This rule 
is, very generally, observed by the French Tragedians ; but the 
English Writers, both of Comedy and Tragedy, seldom pay any 
regard to it. Their personages succeed one another upon the 
Stage with so little connection ; the union of their Scenes is so 
much broken, that, with equal propriety, their Plays might be 
divided into ten or twelve Acts as into five. 

The second rule which the English writers also observe little 
better than the former, is that no person shall come upon the 
Stage, or leave it, without a reason appearing to us, both for the 
one and the other. Nothing is more awkward, and contrary to 
art, than for an Actor to enter, without our seeing any cause for 
his appearing in that scene, except that it was for the Poet's 
purpose he should enter precisely at such a moment ; or for an 



LECT. XL V.] TRAGEDY, 551 

Actor to go away without any reason for his retiring ; farther 
than that the Poet had no more speeches to put into his mouth. 
This is managing the Personam Dramatis exactly like so many 
puppets, who are moved by wires, to answer the call of the 
master of the show. Whereas the perfection of Dramatic 
Writing requires that every thing should be conducted in imita- 
tion, as near as possible, of some real transaction ; where we are 
let into the secret of all that is passing ; where we behold persons 
before us always busy ; see them coming and going ; and know 
perfectly whence they come and whither they go, and about 
what they are employed. 

All that I have hitherto said, relates to the Unity of the Dra- 
matic Action. In order to render the Unity of Action more 
complete, Critics have added the other two Unities of Time and 
Place. The strict observance of these is more difficult, and, 
perhaps, not so necessary. The Unity of Place requires, that 
the Scene should never be shifted ; but that the Action of 
the play should be continued to the end, in the same place 
where it is supposed to begin. The Unity of Time, strictly 
taken, requires, that the time of the Action be no longer than the 
time that is allowed for the Representation of the Play ; though 
Aristotle seems to have given the Poet a little more liberty, and 
permitted the action to comprehend the whole time of one day. 

The intention of both these rules is, to overcharge, as little as 
possible, the imagination of the Spectators with improbable 
circumstances in the acting of the Play, and to bring the imita- 
tion more close to reality. We must observe, that the nature of 
Dramatic Exhibitions upon the Greek Stage, subjected the 
Ancient Tragedians to a more strict Observance of these Unities 
than is necessary in Modern Theatres. I showed, that a Greek 
Tragedy was one uninterrupted representation, from beginning 
to end. There was no division of Acts ; no pauses or interval 
between them; but the Stage was continually full; occupied 
either by the Actors, or the Chorus. Hence, no room was left 
for the imagination to go beyond the precise time and place of 
the representation ; any more than is allowed during the con- 
tinuance of one Act, on the Modern Theatre. 

But the practice of suspending the spectacle totally for some 
little time between the Acts, has made a great and material 
change ; gives more latitude to the imagination, and renders the 
ancient strict confinement to time and place, less necessary. 
While the acting of the Play is interrupted, the Spectator can* 
without any great or violent effort, suppose a few hours to pass 
between every act; or can suppose himself moved from one 
apartment of a palace, or one part of a city to another : and, 
therefore, too strict an observance of these Unities ought not to 
be preferred to higher beauties of execution, nor to the intro- 
duction of more pathetic situations, which sometimes eannot be 
accomplished in any other way, than by the transgression of 
these rules. 



552 TRAGEDY. [LECT. XLV. 

On the Ancient Stage, we plainly see the Poets struggling 
with many an inconvenience, in older to preserve those Unities 
which were then so necessary. As the Scene could never be 
shifted, they were obliged to make it always lie in some court of 
a palace, or some public area, to which all the persons concerned 
in the action might have equal access. This led to frequent 
improbabilities, by representing things as transacted there, which 
naturally ought to have been transacted before few witnesses, and 
in private apartments. The like improbabilities arose, from 
limiting themselves so much in point of time. Incidents were 
unnaturally crowded ; and it is easy to point out several 
instances in the Greek Tragedies, where events are supposed to 
pass during a Song of the Chorus, which must necessarily have 
employed many hours. 

But though it seems necessary to set Modern Poets free from 
a strict observance of these Dramatic Unities, yet we must 
remember there are certain bounds to this liberty. Frequent 
and wild changes of time and place ; hurrying the Spectator 
from one distant city or country, to another ; or making several 
days or weeks to pass during the course of the Representation, 
are liberties which shock the imagination, which give to the 
performance a romantic and unnatural appearance, and, therefore, 
cannot be allowed in any Dramatic Writer, who aspires to 
correctness. In particular, we must remember, that it is only 
between the Acts, that any liberty can be given for going beyond 
the Unities of Time and Place. During the course of each 
Act, they ought to be strictly observed; that is, during each 
Act the Scene should continue the same, and no more time 
should be supposed to pass, than is employed in the representa- 
tion of that act; This is a rule which the French Tragedians 
regularly observe. To violate this rule, as is too often done by 
the English ; to change the Place, and shift the Scene, in the 
midst of one Act, shows great incorrectness, and destroys the 
whole intention of the division of a Play into Acts. Mr. 
Addison's Cato is remarkable, beyond most English Tragedies, 
for regularity of conduct. The Author has limited himself, in 
time, to a single day : and in place, has maintained the most 
rigorous Unity. The Scene is never changed ; and the whole 
action passes in the hall of Cato's house, at Utica. 

In general, the nearer a Poet can bring the Dramatic Repre- 
sentation, in all its circumstances, to an imitation of nature and 
real life, the impression which he makes on us will always be the 
more perfect. Probability, as I observed at the beginning of 
the lecture, is highly essential to the conduct of the Tragic 
Action, and we are always hurt by the want of it. It is this 
that makes the observance of the Dramatic Unities to be of 
consequence, as far as they can be observed, without sacrificing 
more material beauties. It is not, as has been sometimes said, 
that by the preservation of the Unities of Time and Place, 



LECT. XL VI.] TRAGEDY. 553 

Spectators are deceived into a belief of the reality of the objects 
which are set before them on the Stage ; and that, when those 
Unities are violated, the charm is broken, and they discover the 
whole to be a fiction. No such deception as this can ever be 
accomplished. No one ever imagines himself to be at Athens, 
or Rome, when a Greek or Roman subject is presented on the 
Stage. He knows the whole to be an imitation only : but he 
requires that imitation to be conducted with skill and verisi- 
militude. His pleasure, the entertainment which he expects, the 
interest which he is to take in the Story, all depend on its being 
so conducted. His imagination, therefore, seeks to aid the 
imitation, and to rest on the probability; and the Poet who 
shocks him by improbable circumstances, and by awkward, 
unskilful imitation, deprives him of his pleasure, and leaves him 
hurt and displeased. This is the whole mystery of the theatrical 
illusion. 



LECTURE XL VI. 

TRAGEDY. — GREEK — FRENCH — ENGLISH TRAGEDY. 

Having treated of the Dramatic Action in Tragedy, I pro- 
ceed next to treat of the Characters most proper to be exhibited. 
It has been thought, by several Critics, that the nature of 
Tragedy requires the principal personages to be always of illus- 
trious character, and of high or princely rank; whose misfor- 
tunes and sufferings, it is said, take faster hold of the imagina- 
tion, and impress the heart more forcibly than similar events, 
happening to persons in private life. But this is more specious 
than solid. It is refuted by facts. For the distresses of 
Desdemona, Monimia, and Belvidera, interest us as deeply 
as if they had been princesses or queens. The dignity of 
Tragedy does, indeed, require, that there should be nothing 
degrading or mean, in the circumstances of the persons which it 
exhibits ; but it requires nothing more. Their high rank may 
render the spectacle more splendid, and the subject seemingly of 
more importance, but conduces very little to its being interesting 
or pathetic ; which depends entirely on the nature of the Tale, 
on the art of the Poet in conducting it, and on the sentiments to 
which it gives occasion. In every rank of life, the relations of 
Father, Husband, Son, Brother, Lover, or Friend, lay the 
foundation of those affecting situations, which make man's heart 
feel for man. 

The moral characters of the persons represented, are of much 
greater consequence than the external circumstances in which 

p p 



554 TRAGEDY. [LECT. XLVI. 

the Poet places them. Nothing, indeed, in the conduct of 
Tragedy, demands a Poet's attention more, than so to describe his 
personages, and so to order the incidents which relate to them, 
as shall leave upon the Spectators, impressions favourable to 
virtue, and to the administration of Providence. It is not 
necessary for this end, that poetical justice, as it is called, should 
be observed in the catastrophe of the Piece. This has been long 
exploded from Tragedy, the end of which is to affect us with 
pity for the virtuous in distress, and to afford a probable repre- 
sentation of the state of human life, where calamities often befall 
the best, and a mixed portion of good and evil is appointed for 
all. But withal, the Author must beware of shocking our minds 
with such representations of life as tend to raise horror, or to 
render virtue an object of aversion. Though innocent persons 
suffer, their sufferings ought to be attended with such circum- 
stances, as shall make virtue appear amiable and venerable ; and 
shall render their condition, on the whole, preferable to that of 
bad men, who have prevailed against them. The stings and the 
remorse of guilt, must ever be represented as productive of 
greater miseries, than any that the bad can bring upon the good. 

Aristotle's observations on the characters proper for Tragedy, 
are very judicious. He is of opinion, that perfect unmixed 
characters, either of good or ill men, are not the fittest to be in- 
troduced. The distresses of the one being wholly unmerited, 
hurt and shock us ; and the sufferings of the other occasion no 
pity. Mixed characters, such as in fact we meet with in the 
world, afford the most proper field for displaying, without any 
bad effect on morals, the vicissitudes of life ; and they interest 
us the more deeply, as they display emotions and passions which 
we have all been conscious of. When such persons fall into 
distress through the vices of others, the subject may be very 
pathetic ; but it is always more instructive, when a person has 
been himself the cause of his misfortune, and when his mis- 
fortune is occasioned by the violence of passion, or by some 
weakness incident to human nature. Such subjects both dispose 
us to the deepest sympathy, and administer useful warnings 
to us for our own conduct. 

Upon these principles it surprises me that the story of GEdipus 
should have been so much celebrated by all the Critics, as 
one of the fittest subjects for Tragedy ; and so often brought 
upon the Stage, not by Sophocles only, but by Corneille also, 
and Voltaire. An innocent person, one, in the main, of a 
virtuous character, through no crime of his own, nay, not by the 
vices of others, but through mere fatality and blind chance, 
is involved in the greatest of all human miseries. In a casual 
rencounter he kills his father, without knowing him ; he after- 
wards is married to his own mother ; and discovering himself in 
the end to have committed both parricide and incest, he becomes 
frantic, and dies in the utmost misery. Such a subject excites 



LECT. XLVI.] TRAGEDY. 555 

horror rather than pity. As it is conducted by Sophocles, it is 
indeed extremely affecting; but it conveys no instruction; it 
awakens in the mind no tender sympathy ; it leaves no impres- 
sion favourable to virtue or humanity. 

It must be acknowledged, that the subjects of the ancient 
Greek Tragedies were too often founded on mere destiny and 
inevitable misfortunes. They were too much mixed with their 
tales about oracles, and the vengeance of the Gods, which led 
to many an incident sufficiently melancholy and tragical ; but 
rather purely tragical than useful or moral. Hence, both the 
CEdipus's of Sophocles, the Iphigenia in Aulis, the Hecuba 
of Euripides, and several of the like kind. In the course of 
the Drama many moral sentiments occurred. But the in- 
struction, which the Fable of the Play conveyed, seldom was 
any more, than that reverence was owing to the Gods, and 
submission due to the decrees of Destiny. Modern Tragedy 
has aimed at a higher object, by becoming more the theatre 
of passion; pointing out to men the consequences of their 
own misconduct ; showing the direful effects which ambition, 
jealousy, love, resentment, and other such strong emotions, 
when misguided, or left unrestrained, produce upon human 
life. An Othello, hurried by jealousy to murder his innocent 
wife ; a Jaffier, ensnared by resentment and want, to engage 
in a conspiracy, and then stung with remorse, and involved in 
ruin ; a Siffredi, through the deceit which he employs for 
public spirited ends, bringing destruction on all whom he 
loved ; a Calista, seduced into a criminal intrigue, which over- 
whelms herself, her father, and all her friends in misery ; 
these, and such as these, are the examples which Tragedy 
now displays to public view ; and by means of which, it incul- 
cates on men the proper government of their passions. 

Of all the passions which furnish matter to Tragedy, that 
which has most occupied the Modern Stage is Love. To the 
Ancient Theatre, it was in a manner wholly unknown. In few 
of their Tragedies is it ever mentioned; and I remember 
no more than one which turns upon it, the Hippolitus of 
Euripides. This was owing to the national manners of the 
Greeks, and to that greater separation of the two sexes from 
one another, than has taken place in modern times ; aided too, 
perhaps, by this circumstance, that no female actors ever ap- 
peared on the Ancient Stage. But though no reason appears 
for the total exclusion of Love from the Theatre, yet with what 
justice or propriety it has usurped so much place, as to be in 
a manner the sole hinge of Modern Tragedy, may be much 
questioned. Yoltaire, who is no less eminent as a Critic 
than as a Poet, declares loudly and strongly against this pre- 
dominancy of Love, as both degrading the majesty, and confin- 
ing the natural limits of Tragedy. And assuredly, the mixing 
of it perpetually with all the great and solemn revolutions 

P p2 






556 TRAGEDY. [LECT. XLYI. 

of human fortune which belong to the Tragic Stage, tends 
to give Tragedy too much the air of gallantry, and juve- 
nile entertainment. The Athalie of Racine, the Merope of 
Voltaire, the Douglas of Mr. Home, are sufficient proofs that 
without any assistance from Love, the Drama is capable of 
producing its highest effects upon the mind. 

This seems to be clear, that wherever Love is introduced into 
Tragedy, it ought to reign in it, and to give rise to the 
principal action. It ought to be that sort of Love which 
possesses all the force and majesty of passion ; and which oc- 
casions great and important consequences. For nothing can 
have a worse effect, or be more debasing to Tragedy, than, 
together with the manly and heroic passions, to mingle a trifling 
love intrigue, as a sort of seasoning to the Play. The bad 
effects of this are sufficiently conspicuous both in the Cato of 
Mr. Addison, as I had occasion before to remark, and in the 
Iphigenie of Racine. 

After a Tragic Poet has arranged his subject, and chosen 
his personages, the next thing he must attend to, is the pro- 
priety of sentiments; that they be perfectly suited to the 
characters of those persons to whom they are attributed, and to 
the situations in which they are placed. The necessity of ob- 
serving this general rule is so obvious, that I need not insist 
upon it. It is principally in the pathetic parts, that both the 
difficulty and the importance of it are the greatest. Tragedy 
is the region of passion. We come to it, expecting to be 
moved ; and let the Poet be ever so judicious in his conduct, 
moral in his intentions, and elegant in his Style, yet if he fails 
in the pathetic, he has no tragic merit, we return cold and 
disappointed from the performance, and never desire to meet 
with it more. 

To paint passion so truly and justly as to strike the hearts 
of the hearers with full sympathy, is a prerogative of genius 
given to few. It requires strong and ardent sensibility of 
mind. It requires the Author to have the power of entering 
deeply into the characters which he draws ; of becoming for 
a moment the very person whom he exhibits, and of assuming 
all his feelings. For, as I have often had occasion to observe, 
there is no possibility of speaking properly the language of 
any passion, without feeling it; and it is to the absence or 
deadness of real emotion, that we must ascribe the want of 
success in so many Tragic Writers, when they attempt being 
pathetic. 

No man, for instance, when he is under the strong agitations 
of anger or grief, or any such violent passion, ever thinks of 
describing to another what his feelings at that time are ; or of 
telling them what he resembles. This never was, and never 
will be, the language of any person, when he is deeply moved. 
It is the language of one who describes coolly the condition 



LECT. XL VI.] TRAGEDY. 551 

of that person to another ; or it is the language of the passionate 
person himself, after his emotion has subsided, relating what 
his situation was in the moments of passion. Yet this sort 
of secondary description is what Tragic Poets too often give us, 
instead of the native and primary language of passion. Thus, in 
Mr. Addison's Cato, when Lucia confesses to Portius her 
love for him, but, at the same time, swears with the greatest 
solemnity, that in the present situation of their country she will 
never marry him, Portius receives this unexpected sentence 
with the utmost astonishment and grief; at least the Poet wants 
to make us believe that he so received it. How does he express 
these feelings ? 

Fixed in astonishment, I gaze upon thee, 
Like one just blasted by a stroke from Heaven, 
Who pants for breath, and stiffens yet alive 
In dreadful looks, a monument of wrath. 

This makes his whole reply to Lucia. Now, did any person, 
who was of a sudden astonished and overwhelmed with sorrow, 
ever since the creation of the world, express himself in this 
manner ? This is indeed an excellent description to be given us 
by another of a person who was in such a situation. Nothing 
would have been more proper for a bye-stander, recounting this 
conference, than to have said, 

Fixed in astonishment, he gazed upon her, 
Like one just blasted by a stroke from Heaven, 
Who pants for breath, &c. 

But the person who is himself concerned, speaks, on such an 
occasion, in a very different manner. He gives vent to his 
feelings ; he pleads for pity ; he dwells upon the cause of his 
grief and astonishment ; but never thinks of describing his own 
person and looks, and showing us, by a simile, what he re- 
sembles. Such representations of passions are no better in 
Poetry, than it would be in painting, to make a lable issue from 
the mouth of a figure, bidding us remark, that this figure repre- 
sents an astonished, or a grieved person. 

On some other occasions, when Poets do not employ this sort 
of descriptive language in passion, they are too apt to run into 
forced and unnatural thoughts, in order to exaggerate the feel- 
ings of persons, whom they would paint as very strongly moved. 
When Osmyn, in the Mourning Bride, after parting with 
Almeria, regrets in a long soliloquy, that his eyes only see 
objects that are present, and cannot see Almeria after she 
is gone ; when Jane Shore, in Mr. Howe's Tragedy, on meeting 
with her husband in her extreme distress, and finding that 
he had forgiven her, calls on the rains to give her their drops, 
and the springs to give her their streams that she may never 
want a supply of tears ; in such passages, we see very plainly 



558 TEAGEDY. [LECT. XL VI. 

that it is neither Osmyn, nor Jane Shore, that speak ; but the 
Poet himself in his own person, who, instead of assuming the 
feelings of those whom he means to exhibit, and speaking as 
they would have done in such situations, is straining his fancy, 
and spurring up his genius to say something that shall be 
uncommonly strong and lively. 

If we attend to the language that is spoken by persons un- 
der the influence of real passion, we shall find it always plain 
and simple; abounding indeed with those figures which express 
a disturbed and impetuous state of mind, such as interrogations, 
exclamations, and apostrophes; but never employing those 
which belong to the mere embellishment and parade of Speech. 
We never meet with any subtilty or refinement, in the senti- 
ments of real passion. The thoughts which passion suggests, 
are always plain and obvious ones, arising directly from its 
object. Passion never reasons nor speculates till its ardour 
begins to cool. It never leads to long discourse or declama- 
tion. On the contrary, it expresses itself most commonly in 
short, broken and interrupted .Speeches ; corresponding to the 
violent and desultory emotions of the mind. 

When we examine the French Tragedians by these principles, 
which seem clearly founded in nature, we find them often defi- 
cient. Though in many parts of Tragic Composition, they have 
great merit ; though in exciting soft and tender emotions, some 
of them are very successful; yet in the high and strong 
pathetic, they generally fail. Their passionate Speeches too often 
run into long declamation. There is too much reasoning and 
refinement ; too much pomp and studied beauty in them. They 
rather convey a feeble impression of passion, than awaken any 
strong sympathy in the reader's mind. 

Sophocles and Euripides are much more successful in this 
part of Composition. In their pathetic scenes, we find no 
unnatural refinement; no exaggerated thoughts. They set 
before us the plain and direct feelings of nature, in simple 
expressive language; and therefore, on great occasions, they 
seldom fail of touching the heart.* This, too, is Shakespeare's 
great excellency ; and to this it is principally owing, that his 
dramatic productions, notwithstanding their many imperfections, 
have been so long the favourites of the Public. He is more 
I faithful to the true language of Nature, in the midst of passion, 

* Nothing, for instance, can be more touching and pathetic than the address which 
Medea, in Euripides, makes to her children, when she had formed the resolution of 
putting them to death : and nothing more natural, than the conflict which she is 
described as suffering within herself on that occasion ; 

<&£i/, &av Ti 7rpo(TdspKe(j9s p,' oppacnv tgkvcl j 
Ti irgoaytkare rov iravvoTctTOV ysXojv ; 
At, at ti dpacrut ; Kapdia yap oixiTac 
TvvaiKtg, ofifJia (paidpov wg eidov tikvmv 
Ovk dv dvvaiptjv. x al 9 itia PovXevpara, &c. 

Eur. Med. L. 1040. 



LECT. XLVI.] TKAGEDY. 559 

than any Writer. He gives us this language unadulterated 
by art ; and more instances of it can be quoted from him than 
from all other Tragic Poets taken together. I shall refer 
only to that admirable scene in Macbeth, where Macduff 
receives the account of his wife and all his children being 
slaughtered in his absence. The emotions, first of grief, and 
then of the most fierce resentment rising against Macbeth, 
are painted in such a manner that there is no heart but 
must feel them, and no fancy can conceive any thing more 
expressive of Nature. 

With regard to moral sentiments and reflections in Tragedies, 
it is clear that they must not recur too often. They lose their 
effect, when unseasonably crowded. They render the Play 
pedantic and declamatory. This is remarkably the case with 
those Latin Tragedies which go under the name of Seneca, 
which are little more than a collection of declamations and moral 
sentences, wrought up with a quaint brilliancy, which suited 
the prevailing taste of that age. 

I am not, however, of opinion, that moral reflections ought 
to be altogether omitted in Tragedies. When properly intro- 
duced, they give dignity to the Composition, and, on many oc- 
casions, they are extremely natural. When Persons are under 
any uncommon distress, when they are beholding in others, 
or experiencing in themselves, the vicissitudes of human fortune ; 
indeed, when they are placed in any of the great and trying 
situations of life, serious and moral reflections naturally occur 
to them, whether they be persons of much virtue or not. 
Almost every human being is, on such occasions, disposed to be 
serious. It is then the natural tone of the mind ; and therefore 
no Tragic Poet should omit such proper opportunities, when they 
occur, for favouring the interests of virtue. Cardinal Wolsey's 
soliloquy upon his fall, for instance, in Shakespeare, when he 
bids a long farewell to all his greatness, and the advices which 
he afterwards gives to Cromwell, are, in his situation, extremely 
natural ; touch and please all readers ; and are at once instruc- 
tive and affecting. Much of the merit of Mr. Addison's Cato 
depends upon that moral turn of thought which distinguishes it. 
I have had occasion, both in this Lecture and in the preceding 
one, to take notice of some of its defects; and certainly, neither 
for warmth of passion, nor proper conduct of the plot, is it 
at all eminent. It does not, however, follow, that it is 
destitute of merit. For, by the purity and beauty of the 
language, by the dignity of Cato's character, by that ardour 
of public spirit, and those virtuous sentiments of which it is 
full, it has always commanded high regard; and has, both 
in our own country and among foreigners, acquired no small 
reputation. 

The Style and Versification of Tragedy ought to be free, 
easy, and varied. Our blank verse is happily suited to this 



560 GEEEK TKAGEDY. [LECT. XLVI. 

purpose. It has sufficient majesty for raising the Style ; it can 
descend to the simple and familiar; it is susceptible of great 
variety of cadence ; and is quite free from the constraint and 
monotony of rhyme. For monotony is, above all things, to be 
avoided by a Tragic Poet. If he maintains every where the 
same stateliness of style, if he unifoMnly keeps up the same run 
of measure and harmony in his Verse, he cannot fail of becoming 
insipid. He should not, indeed, sink into flat and careless lines; 
his Style should always have force and dignity, but not the uni- 
form dignity of Epic Poetry. It should assume that briskness 
and ease which is suited to the freedom of dialogue, and the 
fluctuations of passion. 

One of the greatest misfortunes of the French Tragedy is, its 
being always written in rhyme. The nature of the French 
language, indeed, requires this, in order to distinguish the Style 
from mere Prose. But it fetters the freedom of the Tragic 
Dialogue, fills it with a languid monotony, and is, in a manner, 
fatal to the high strength and power of passion. Yoltaire main- 
tains, that the difficulty of composing in French Rhyme, is one 
great cause of the pleasure which the Audience receives from 
the Composition. Tragedy would be ruined, says he, if we were 
to write it in Blank Verse ; take away the difficulty, and you 
take away the whole merit. A strange idea ! as if the enter- 
tainment of the Audience arose, not from the emotions which 
the Poet is successful in awakening, but from a reflection on the 
toil which he endured in his closet, from assorting male and 
female Rhymes. With regard to those splendid comparisons in 
Rhyme, and strings of couplets, with which it was, some time 
ago, fashionable for our English Poets to conclude, not only 
every act of a Tragedy, but sometimes also the most interesting 
Scenes, nothing need be said, but that they were the most per- 
fect barbarisms ; childish ornaments, introduced to please a false 
taste in the Audience ; and now universally laid aside. 

Having thus treated of all the different parts of Tragedy, I 
shall conclude the subject, with a short view of the Greek, the 
French, and the English Stage, and with observations on the 
principal Writers. 

Most of the distinguishing characters of the Greek Tragedy 
have been already occasionally mentioned. It was embellished 
with the Lyric Poetry of the Chorus, of the origin of which, 
and of the advantages and disadvantages attending it, I treated 
fully in the preceding Lecture. The plot was always exceed- 
ingly simple. It admitted of few incidents. It was conducted 
with a very exact regard to the unities of action, time, and place. 
Machinery, or the intervention of the Gods, was employed; and, 
which is very faulty, the final unravelling sometimes made to 
turn upon it. Love, except in one or two instances, was never 
admitted into the Greek Tragedy. Their subjects were often 
founded on destiny, or inevitable misfortunes. A vein of reli- 



LECT. XLVI.] GREEK TRAGEDY. 561 

gious and moral sentiment always runs through them ; but they 
made less use than the Moderns of the combat of the passions, 
and of the distresses which our passions bring upon us. Their 
plots were all taken from the ancient traditionary stories of their 
own nations. Hercules furnishes matter for two Tragedies. 
The history of (Edipus, King of Thebes, and his unfortunate 
family, for six. The war of Troy, with its consequence's, for no 
fewer than seventeen. There is only one of later date than this; 
which is the Persse, or Expedition of Xerxes, by .ZEschylus. 

.ZEschylus is the father of the Greek Tragedy, and exhibits 
both the beauties and the defects of an early original Writer. 
He is bold, nervous, and animated ; but very obscure and diffi- 
cult to be understood ; partly by reason of the incorrect state in 
which we have his works (they having suffered more by time, 
than any of the Ancient Tragedians), and partly on occount of 
the nature of his Style, which is crowded with metaphors, often 
harsh and tumid. He abounds with martial ideas and descrip- 
tions. He has much fire and elevation ; less of tenderness, than 
of force. He delights in the marvellous. The Ghost of Darius 
in the Persge, the inspiration of Cassandra in Agamemnon, and 
the Songs of the Furies in the Eumenides, are beautiful in 
their kind, and strongly expressive of his genius. 

Sophocles is the most masterly of the three Greek Tragedians; 
the most correct in the conduct of his subjects ; the most just 
and sublime in his sentiments. He is eminent for his descriptive 
talent. The relation of the death of (Edipus, in his (Edipus 
Coloneus, and of the death of Hgemon and Antigone, in his 
Antigone, are perfect patterns of description to Tragic Poets. 
Euripides is esteemed more tender than Sophocles ; and he is 
fuller of moral sentiments. But in the conduct of his plays, he 
is more incorrect and negligent ; his expositions, or openings of 
the subject, are made in a less artful manner ; and the Songs of 
his Chorus, though remarkably poetical, have, commonly, less 
connection with the main action, than those of Sophocles. 
Both Euripides and Sophocles, however, have very high merit 
as Tragic Poets. They are elegant and beautiful in their Style ; 
just, for the most part, in their thoughts ; they speak with the 
voice of nature; and, making allowance for the difference of 
ancient and modern ideas, in the midst of all their simplicity, 
they are touching and interesting. 

The circumstances of theatrical representation on the stages 
of Greece and Pome, were, in several respects, very singular, 
and widely different from what obtains among us. Not only 
were the Songs of the Chorus accompanied with instrumental 
music, but as the Abbe de Bos, in his Reflections on Poetry 
and Painting, has proved, with much curious erudition, the 
dialogue part had also a modulation of its own, which was capable 
of being set to notes ; it was carried on in a sort of recitative 
between the Actors, and was supported by instruments. He 



562 FRENCH TRAGEDY. [LECT. XL VI. 

has farther attempted to prove, but the proof seems more incom- 
plete, that on some occasions, on the Roman stage, the pro- 
nouncing and gesticulating parts were divided ; that one actor 
spoke, and another performed the gestures and motions corre- 
sponding to what the first said. The Actors in Tragedy wore 
a long robe, called Syrma, which flowed upon the Stage. They 
were raised upon Cothurni, which rendered their stature uncom- 
monly high ; and they always played in masks. These masks 
were like helmets, which covered the whole head ; the mouths 
of them were so contrived as to give an artificial sound to the 
voice, in order to make it be heard over their vast theatres ; and 
the visage was so formed and painted, as to suit the age, charac- 
ters, or dispositions of the persons represented. When, during 
the course of one Scene, different emotions were to appear in the 
same person, the mask is said to have been so painted, that the 
Actor, by turning one or other profile of his face to the Specta- 
tors, expressed the change of the situation. This, however, was 
a contrivance attended with many disadvantages. The mask 
must have deprived the Spectators of all the pleasure which 
arises from the natural animated expression of the eye, and the 
countenance ; and, joined with the other circumstances which I 
have mentioned, is apt to give us but an unfavourable idea of the 
dramatic representations of the Ancients. In defence of them, 
it must, at the same time, be remembered, that their theatres 
were vastly more extensive in the area than ours, and filled with 
immense crowds. They were always uncovered, and exposed to 
the open air. The Actors were beheld at a much greater dis- 
tance, and of course much more imperfectly by the bulk of the 
Spectators, which both rendered their looks of less consequence, 
and might make it in some degree necessary that their features 
should be exaggerated, the sound of their voices enlarged, and 
their whole appearance magnified beyond the life, in order to 
make the stronger impression. It is certain, that, as dramatic 
Spectacles were the favourite entertaiments of the Greeks and 
Romans, the attention given to their proper exhibition, and the 
magnificence of the apparatus bestowed on their theatres, far 
exceeded any thing that has been attempted in modern ages. 

In the Compositions of some of the French Dramatic Writers, 
particularly Corneille, Racine, and Voltaire, Tragedy has ap- 
peared with much lustre and dignity. They must be allowed to 
have improved upon the Ancients, in introducing more incidents, 
a greater variety of passions, a fuller display of characters, and 
in rendering the subject thereby more interesting. They have 
studied to imitate the ancient models in regularity of conduct. 
They are attentive to all the unities, and to all the decorums of 
sentiment and morality ; and their Style is, generally, very 
poetical and elegant. What an English taste is most apt to 
censure in them, is the want of fervour, strength, and the natural 
language of passion. There is often too much conversation in 



LECT. XLVI.] FRENCH TRAGEDY. 563 

their pieces, instead of action. They are too declamatory, as 
was before observed, when they should be passionate ; too re- 
fined, when they should be simple. Voltaire freely acknow- 
ledges these defects of the French Theatre. He admits, that 
their best Tragedies do not make a sufficient impresssion on the 
heart; that the gallantry which reigns in them, and the long 
fine-spun dialogue with which they over-abound, frequently 
spread a languor over them; that the Authors seemed to be 
afraid of being too tragic ; and very candidly gives it as his 
judgment, that an union of the vehemence and the action, which 
characterize the English Theatre, with the correctness and 
decorum of the French Theatre, would be necessary to form a 
perfect Tragedy. 

Corneille, who is properly the Father of French Tragedy, is 
distinguished by the majesty and grandeur of his sentiments, and 
the fruitfulness of his imagination. His genius was unquestion- 
ably very rich, but seemed more turned towards the Epic than 
the Tragic vein; for, in general, he is magnificent and splendid, 
rather than tender and touching. He is the most declamatory of 
all the French Tragedians. He united the copiousness of Dryden 
with the fire of Lucan, and he resembles them also in their 
faults ; in their extravagance and impetuosity. He has com- 
posed a great number of Tragedies, very unequal in their merit. 
His best and most esteemed pieces, are the Cid, Horace, Poly- 
eucte, and Cinna. 

Racine, as a Tragic Poet, is much superior to Corneille. He 
wanted the copiousness and grandeur of Corneille's imagination ; 
but is free from his bombast, and excels him greatly in tender- 
ness. Few Poets, indeed, are more tender and moving than 
Racine. His Phaedra, his Andromaque, his Athalie, and his 
Mithridate, are excellent dramatic performances, and do no 
small honour to the French Stage. His language and versifica- 
tion are uncommonly beautiful. Of all the French Authors, he 
appears to me to have most excelled in Poetical Style ; to have 
managed their Rhyme with the greatest advantage and facility, 
and to have given it the most complete harmony. Voltaire has, 
again and again, pronounced Racine's Athalie to be the (i Chef 
d'CEuvre " of the French Stage. It is altogether a sacred drama, 
and owes much of its elevation to the Majesty of Religion ; but 
it is less tender and interesting than Andromaque. Racine has 
formed two of his plays upon plans of Euripides. In the Phaedra 
he is extremely successful, but not so, in my opinion, in the 
Iphigenie ; where he has degraded the ancient characters, by 
unseasonable gallantry. Achilles is a French lover ; and Eriphile 
a modern lady.* 

* The characters of Corneille and Racine are happily contrasted with each other, in 
the following beautiful lines of a French Poet, which will gratify several readers : 

Corneille. 
Ilium nobilibus majestas evehit alis 
Venice tangentem nubis : stant ordine longo 



564 FRENCH TRAGEDY. [LECT. XL VI. 

Voltaire, in several of his Tragedies, is inferior to none of his 
predecessors. In one great article, he has outdone them all, in 
the delicate and interesting situations which he has contrived 
to introduce. In these lies his chief strength. He is not, 
indeed, exempt from the defects of the other French Tragedians, 
of wanting force, and of being sometimes too long and decla- 
matory in his Speeches; but his characters are drawn with 
spirit, his events are striking, and in his sentiments there is 
much elevation. His Zayre, Alzire, Merop6, and Orphan of 
China, are four capital Tragedies, and deserve the highest praise. 
What one might perhaps not expect, Voltaire is, in the strain of 
his sentiments, the most religious, and the most moral, of all 
Tragic Poets. 

Though the musical Dramas of Metastasio fulfil not the cha- 
racter of just and regular Tragedies, they approach however so 
near to it, and possess so much merit, that it would be unjust to 
pass them over without notice. For the elegance of Style, the 
charms of Lyric Poetry, and the beauties .of sentiment, they 

Magnanimi circum heroes, fulgentibus omnes 
Induti trabeis ; Polyeuctus, Cinna, Seleucus, 
Et Cidus, et rugis signatus Horatius ora. 

Racine. 

Hunc circumvolitat penna alludente Cupido 
Vincla triumphatis insternens florea scenis : 
Colligit hasc mollis genius, levibusque catenis 
Herbasstringit dociles, Pyrrhosque, Titosque, 
Pelidasque ac Hippolytos, qui sponte sequuntur 
Servitium, facilesque ferunt in vincula palmas. 
Ingentes nimirum animos Cornelius ingens, 
Et quales babet ipse, suis herbibus afflat 
Sublimes sensus ; vox olli mascula, magnum os, 
Nee mortale sonans. Rapido fluit impete vena, 
Vena Sophocleis non inficianda fluentis. 
Racinius Gallis baud visos ante tbeatris 
Mollior ingenio teneros induxit amores 
Magnanimos quamvis sensus sub pectore verset 
Agrippina, licet Romano robore Burrhus 
Polleat, et magni generosa superbia Pori 
Non semel eniteat, tamen esse ad mollia natum 
Credideris vatem ; vox olli mellea, lenis 
Spiritus est ; non ille animis vim concitus infert, 
At ccecos animorum aditus rimatur, et imis 
Mentibus occultos, syren penetrabilis, ictus 
Insinuans, palpando ferit, laeditque placendo. 
Vena fluit facili non intermissa nitore, 
Nee rapidos semper volvit cum murmure fluctus. 
Agmine sed leni fluitat. Seu gramina lambit 
Rivulus, et cceco per prata virentia lapsu, 
Aufugiens, tacita fluit indeprensus arena ; 
Flore micantripae illimes ; hue vulgus amantum 
Convolat, et lacrymis auget rivalibus undas : 
Singultus undae referunt, gemitusque sonoros 
Ingeminant, molli gemitus imitante susurro. 

Templum Tragoedise, per Fr. Mausy. 
e Societate Jesu. 



LECT. XLVI.] ENGLISH TKAGEDY. 565 

are eminent. They abound in well-contrived and interesting 
situations. The Dialogue, by its closeness and rapidity, carries 
a considerable resemblance to that of the Ancient Greek Tra- 
gedies ; and is both more animated and more natural, than the 
long declamation of the French Theatre. But the shortness of 
the several Dramas, and the intermixture of so much Lyric 
Poetry as belongs to this sort of Composition, often occasions 
the course of the incidents to be hurried on too quickly, and 
prevents that consistent display of Characters, and that full pre- 
paration of events, which are necessary to give a proper verisimi- 
litude to Tragedy. 

It only now remains to speak of the state of Tragedy in Great 
Britain ; the general character of which is, that it is more ani- 
mated and passionate than French Tragedy, but more irregular 
and incorrect, and less attentive to decorum and to elegance. 
The pathetic, it must always be remembered, is the soul of 
Tragedy. The English, therefore, must be allowed to have 
aimed at the highest species of excellence ; though, in the exe- 
cution, they have not always joined the other beauties that ought 
to accompany the pathetic. 

The first object which presents itself to us on the English 
Theatre, is the great Shakespeare. Great he may be justly called, 
as the extent and force of his natural genius, both for Tragedy 
and Comedy, are altogether unrivalled.* But, at the same time, 
it is genius shooting wild; deficient in just taste, and altogether 
unassisted by knowledge or art. Long has he been idolized by 
the British nation; much has been said, and much has been 
written concerning him ; criticism has been drawn to the very 
dregs, in commentaries upon his words and witticisms; and 
yet it remains to this day in doubt, whether his beauties, or 
his faults, be greatest. Admirable scenes, and passages, with- 
out number, there are in his Plays ; passages beyond what are 
to be found in any other Dramatic Writer ; but there is 
hardly any one of his Plays which can be called altogether a 
good one, or which can be read with uninterrupted pleasure from 
beginning to end. Besides extreme irregularities in conduct, and 
grotesque mixtures of serious and comic in one piece, we are often 
interrupted by unnatural thoughts, harsh expressions, a certain 
obscure bombast, and a play upon words, which he is fond of 

* The character which Dry den has drawn of Shakespeare is not only just, hut 
uncommonly elegant and happy. " He was the man, who, of all modern, and perhaps 
ancient Poets, had the largest and most comprehensive soul. All the images of Nature 
were still present to him, and he drew them not laboriously, but luckily. When he 
describes any thing, you more than see it ; you feel it too. They who accuse him of 
wanting learning, give him the greatest commendation. He was naturally learned. 
He needed not the Spectacles of Books to read Nature. He looked inward, and found 
her there. I cannot say he is every where alike. Were he so, I should do him injury 
to compare him to the greatest of mankind. He is many times flat and insipid ; his 
comic wit degenerating into clenches ; his serious swelling into bombast. But he is 
always great when some great occasion is presented to him." 

Dryden's Essay on Dramatic Poetry. 



566 ENGLISH TRAGEDY. [LECT. XLVI. 

pursuing ; and these interruptions to our pleasure too frequently 
occur, on occasions when we would least wish to meet with them. 
All these faults, however, Shakespeare redeems by two of the 
greatest excellencies which any Tragic Poet can possess ; his 
lively and diversified paintings of character; his strong and 
natural expressions of passion. These are his two chief virtues ; 
on these his merit rests. Notwithstanding his many absurdities, 
all the while we are reading his Plays, we find ourselves in the 
midst of our fellows ; we meet with men vulgar perhaps in their 
manners, coarse or harsh in their sentiments, but still they are 
men; they speak with- human voices, and are actuated by human 
passions ; we are interested in what they say or do, because we feel 
that they are of the same nature with ourselves. It is therefore no 
matter of wonder, that from the more polished and regular, but 
more cold and artificial performances of other Poets, the Public 
should return with pleasure to such warm and genuine represen- 
tations of human nature. Shakespeare possesses likewise the merit 
of having created, for himself, a sort of world of praeternatural 
beings. His witches, ghosts, fairies, and spirits of all kinds, are 
described with such circumstances of awful and mysterious 
solemnity, and speak a language so peculiar to themselves, as 
strongly to affect the imagination. His two master-pieces, and 
in which, in my opinion, the strength of his genius chiefly 
appears, are Othello and Macbeth. With regard to his histo- 
rical Plays, they are, properly speaking, neither Tragedies nor 
Comedies ; but a peculiar species of Dramatic Entertainment, 
calculated to describe the manners of the times of which he 
treats, to exhibit the principal characters, and to fix our imagi- 
nation on the most interesting events and revolutions of our 
own country.* 

After the age of Shakespeare, we can produce in the English 
language several detached Tragedies of considerable merit. But 
we have not many Dramatic Writers, whose whole works are 
entitled either to particular criticism, or very high praise. In 
the Tragedies of Dryden and Lee, there is much fire, but mixed 
with much fustian and rant. Lee's " Theodosius, or the Force 
of Love," is the best of his pieces, and in some of the scenes, does 
not want tenderness and warmth ; though romantic in the plan, 
and extravagant in the sentiments. Otway was endowed with a 
high portion of the Tragic spirit ; which appears to great advan- 
tage in his two principal Tragedies, "The Orphan," and " Venice 
Preserved." In these, he is perhaps too Tragic ; the distresses 
being so deep as to tear and overwhelm the mind. He is a Writer, 
doubtless, of genius and strong passion ; but, at the same time, 
exceedingly gross and indelicate. No Tragedies are less moral 
than those of Otway. There are no generous or noble sentiments 

* See an excellent defence of Shakespeare's Historical Plays, and several just obser- 
vations on his peculiar excellencies as a Tragic Poet, in Mrs, Montague's Essay on the 
Writings and Genius of Shakespeare. 



LECT. XL VI.] ENGLISH TKAGEDY. 567 

in them ; but a licentious spirit often discovers itself. He is the 
very opposite of the French decorum; and has contrived to 
introduce obscenity and indecent allusions, into the midst of 
deep Tragedy. 

Kowe's Tragedies make a contrast to those of Otway. He is 
full of elevated and moral sentiments. The Poetry is often 
good, and the Language always pure and elegant ; but, in most 
of his Plays, he is too cold and uninteresting; and flowery 
rather than tragic. Two, however, he has produced, which 
deserve to be exempted from this censure, Jane Shore and the 
Fair Penitent; in both of which, there are so many tender 
and truly pathetic scenes, as to render them justly favourites of 
the Public. 

Dr. Young's Revenge is a play which discovers genius and 
fire ; but wants tenderness, and turns too much upon the shock- 
ing and direful passions. In Congreve's Mourning Bride, 
there are some fine situations, and much good Poetry. The 
two first Acts are admirable. The meeting of Almeria with 
her husband Osmyn, in the tomb of Anselmo, is one of the most 
solemn and striking situations to be found in any Tragedy. 
The defects in the catastrophe, I pointed out in the last Lec- 
ture. Mr. Thomson's Tragedies are too full of a stiff morality, 
which renders them dull and formal. Tancred and Sigismunda 
far excels the rest ; and for the plot, the characters and senti- 
ments, justly deserve a place among the best English Tragedies. 
Of later pieces, and of living Authors, it is not my purpose 
to treat. 

Upon the whole, reviewing the Tragic Compositions of 
different nations, the following conclusions arise: A Greek 
Tragedy is the relation of any distressful or melancholy incident ; 
sometimes the effect of passion or crime, oftener of the decree of 
the Gods, simply exposed ; without much variety of parts or 
events, but naturally and beautifully set before us ; heightened 
by the Poetry of the Chorus. A French Tragedy is a series of 
artful and refined conversations, founded upon a variety of 
tragical and interesting situations ; carried on with little action 
and vehemence ; but with much poetical beauty, and high pro- 
priety and decorum. An English Tragedy is the combat of strong 
passions, set before us in all their violence ; producing deep dis- 
asters ; often irregularly conducted ; abounding in action and fill- 
ing the Spectators with grief. The Ancient Tragedies were more 
natural and simple ; the Modern are more artful and complex. 
Among the French there is more correctness; among the 
English, more fire. Andromaque and Zayre soften, Othello 
and Venice Preserved rend the heart. It deserves remark, 
that three of the greatest master-pieces of the French Tragic 
Theatre, turn wholly upon religious subjects: the Athalie of 
Racine, the Polyeucte of Corneille, and the Zayre of Voltaire. 
The first is founded upon a historical passage of the Old 



568 COMEDY. [LECT. XLVII. 

Testament ; in the other two, the distress arises from the zeal 
and attachment of the principal personages to the Christian 
faith; and in all the three, the Authors have, with much 
propriety, availed themselves of the majesty which may be 
derived from religious ideas. 



LECTUKE XLVII. 

COMEDY. — CREEK AND ROMAN — FRENCH — ENGLISH 
COMEDY. 

Comedy is sufficiently discriminated from Tragedy, by its 
general spirit and strain. While pity and terror, and the 
other strong passions, form the province of the latter, the 
chief, or rather sole instrument of the former, is ridicule. 
Comedy proposes for its object, neither the great sufferings, 
nor the great crimes of men; but their follies and slighter 
vices, those parts of their character, which raise in beholders a 
sense of impropriety, which expose them to be censured 
and laughed at by others, or which render them troublesome 
in civil society. 

This general idea of Comedy, as a satirical exhibition of the 
improprieties and follies of mankind, is an idea very moral 
and useful. There is nothing in the nature, or general plan 
of this kind of Composition, that renders it liable to cen- 
sure. To polish the manners of men, to promote attention 
to the proper decorums of social behaviour, and, above all, 
to render vice ridiculous, is doing a real service to the world. 
Many vices might be more successfully exploded, by employ- 
ing ridicule against them, than by serious attacks and argu- 
ments. At the same time, it must be confessed, that ridicule 
is an instrument of such a nature, that when managed by 
unskilful, or improper hands, there is hazard of its doing mis- 
chief, instead of good to society. For ridicule is far from 
being, as some have maintained it to be, a proper test of truth. 
On the contrary, it is apt to mislead, and seduce, by the 
colours which it throws upon its objects ; and it is often more 
difficult to judge, whether these colours be natural and proper, 
than it is to distinguish between simple truth and error. Li- 
centious Writers, therefore, or the Comic class, have too 
often had it in their power to cast a ridicule upon charac- 
ters and objects which did not deserve it. But this is a 
fault, not owing to the nature of Comedy, but to the genius 
and turn of the Writers of it. In the hands of a loose, 



LECT. XL VII.] COMEDY. 569 

immoral Author, Comedy will mislead and corrupt; while, 
in those of a virtuous and well-intentioned one, it will be 
not only a gay and innocent, but a laudable and useful enter- 
tainment. French Comedy is an excellent school of manners ; 
while English Comedy has been too often the school of vice. 

The rules respecting the Dramatic Action, which I delivered 
in the first Lecture upon Tragedy, belong equally to Comedy ; 
and hence, of course, our disquisitions concerning it are 
shortened. It is equally necessary to both these forms of 
Dramatic Composition, that there be a proper unity of action 
and subject, that the unities of time and place be, as much 
as possible, preserved; that is, that the time of the action be 
brought within reasonable bounds ; and the place of the action 
never changed, at least, not during the course of each Act; 
that the several Scenes or successive conversations be properly 
linked together ; that the Stage be never totally evacuated till 
the Act closes ; and that the reason should appear to us, why 
the personages, who fill up the different Scenes, enter and go oif 
the Stage, at the time when they are made to do so. The scope 
of all these rules, I showed, was to bring the imitation as near 
as possible to probability ; which is always necessary, in order to 
any imitation giving us pleasure. This reason requires, perhaps, 
a stricter observance of the Dramatic rules in Comedy, th?ai in 
Tragedy. For the action of Comedy being more familiar to us 
than that of Tragedy, more like what we are accustomed to 
see in common life, we judge more easily of what is probable/ 
and are more hurt by the want of it. The probable and the 
natural, both in the conduct of the story, and in the characters 
and sentiments of the persons who are introduced, are the great 
foundation, it must always be remembered, of the whole 
beauty of Comedy. 

The subjects of Tragedy are not limited to any country or 
to any age. The Tragic Poet may lay his Scene in whatever 
region he pleases. He may form his subject upon the history 
either of his own, or of a foreign country; and he may take 
it from any period that is agreeable to him, however remote 
in time. The reverse of this holds in Comedy, for a clear 
and obvious reason. In the great vices, great virtues, and 
high passions, men of all countries and ages resemble one 
another; and are therefore equally subjects for the Tragic Muse. 
But those decorums of behaviour, those lesser discriminations of 
character, which afford subject for Comedy, change with the 
differences of countries and times; and can never be so well 
understood by foreigners, as by natives. We weep for the heroes 
of Greece and Rome, as freely as we do for those of our own 
country ; but we are touched with the ridicule of such manners 
and such characters only, as we see and know ; and therefore 
the Scene and subject of Comedy should always be laid in our 
own country, and in our own times. The Comic Poet, who 

Q Q 



570 COMEDY. [LECT. XLVll. 

aims at correcting improprieties and follies of behaviour, should 
study " to catch the manners living as they rise." It is not his 
business to amuse us with a tale of the last age, or with 
a Spanish or a French intrigue ; but to give us pictures taken 
from among ourselves ; to satirize reigning and present vices ; 
to exhibit to the age a faithful copy of itself, with its humours, 
its follies, and its extravagancies. It is only by laying his plan 
in this manner, that he can add weight and dignity to the 
entertainment which he gives us. Plautus, it is true, and 
Terence, did not follow this rule. They laid the scene of their 
Comedies in Greece, and adopted the Greek laws and customs. 
But it must be remembered, that Comedy was, in their age, 
but a new entertainment in Rome ; and that then they contented 
themselves with imitating, often with translating merely, the 
Comedies of Menander, and other Greek Writers. In after- 
times, it is known that the Romans had the " Comcedia 
Togata," or what was founded on their own manners, as 
well as the " Comcedia Palliata," or what was taken from 
the Greeks. 

Comedy may be divided into two kinds ; Comedy of Character, 
and Comedy of Intrigue. In the latter, the plot, or the action of 
the Play, is made the principal object. In the former, the dis- 
play of some peculiar character is chiefly aimed at ; the action is 
contrived altogether with a view to this end ; and is treated as 
subordinate to it. The French abound most in Comedies of 
Character. All Moliere's capital pieces are of this sort; his 
Avare, for instance, Misanthrope, Tartuffe ; and such are 
Destouches's also, and those of the other chief French Come- 
dians. The English abound more in Comedies of Intrigue. 
In the Plays of Congreve, and, in general, in all our Comedies, 
there is much more story, more bustle and action, than on the 
French Theatre. 

In order to give this sort of Composition its proper advantage, 
these two kinds should be properly mixed together. Without 
some interesting and well-conducted story, mere conversation is 
apt to become insipid. There should be always as much intrigue, 
as to give us something to wish, and something to fear. The 
incidents should so succeed one another, as to produce striking 
situations, and to fix our attention ; while they atford at the same 
time a proper field for the exhibition of character. For the 
Poet must never forget, that to exhibit characters and manners 
is his principal object. The action in Comedy, though it 
demands his care, in order to render it animated and natural, is 
a less significant and important part of the performance, than the 
action in Tragedy : as in Comedy, it is what men say, and how 
they behave, that draws our attention, rather than what they 
perforin, or what they suffer. Hence it is a great fault to over- 
charge it with too much intrigue, and those intricate Spanish 
plots that were fashionable for a while, carried on by perplexed 



LECT. XLVII.] COMEDY. 571 

apartments, dark entries, and disguised habits, are now justly 
condemned and laid aside : for by such conduct, the main use of 
Comedy was lost. The attention of the Spectators, instead of 
being directed towards any display of characters, was fixed upon 
the surprising turns and revolutions of the intrigue ; and Comedy 
was changed into a mere Novel. 

In the management of Characters, one of the most common 
faults of Comic Writers, is the carrying of them too far beyond life. 
Wherever ridicule is concerned, it is indeed extremely difficult to 
hit the precise point where true wit ends, and buffoonery begins. 
When the Miser, for instance, in Plautus, searching the person 
whom he suspects for having stolen his casket, after examining 
first his right hand, and then his left, cries out, " ostende etiam 
tertiam," " show me your third hand," (a stroke too which Moliere 
has copied from him), there is no one but must be sensible of 
the extravagance. Certain degrees of exaggeration are allowed 
to the Comedian ; but there are limits set to it by nature and 
good taste ; and supposing the Miser to be ever so much 
engrossed by his jealousy and his suspicions, it is impossible to 
conceive any man in his wits suspecting another of having more 
than two hands. 

Characters in Comedy ought to be clearly distinguished from 
one another ; but the artificial contrasting of characters, and 
the introducing them always in pairs, and by opposites, gives too 
theatrical and affected an air to the Piece. This is become too 
common a resource of Comic Writers, in order to heighten their 
characters, and display them to more advantage. As soon as the 
violent and impatient person arrives upon the Stage, the Spec- 
tator knows that, in the next scene, he is to be contrasted with 
the mild and good-natured man ; or if one of the lovers intro- 
duced be remarkably gay and airy, w r e are sure that his com- 
panion is to be a grave and serious lover ; like Frankly and 
Bellamy, Clarinda and Jacintha, in Dr. Hoadly's Suspicious 
Husband. Such production of Characters by pairs, is like the 
employment of the figure Antithesis in Discourse, which, as I 
formerly observed, gives brilliancy indeed upon occasions, but is 
too apparently a rhetorical artifice. In every sort of composi- 
tion, the perfection of art is to conceal art. A masterly Writer 
will therefore give us his characters, distinguished rather by such 
shades of diversity as are commonly found in Society, than 
marked with such strong oppositions, as are rarely brought into 
actual contrast, in any of the circumstances of life. 

The Style of Comedy ought to be pure, elegant, and lively, 
very seldom rising higher than the ordinary tone of polite con- 
versation ; and, upon no occasion, descending into vulgar, mean, 
and gross expressions. Here the French rhyme, which in many 
of their Comedies they have preserved, occurs as an unnatural 
bondage. Certainly, if Prose belongs to any Composition what- 
ever, it is to that which imitates the conversation of men in 

Q Q 2 






572 ANCIENT COMEDY. [LECT. XL VII. 

ordinary life. One of the most difficult circumstances in writing 
Comedy, and one too, upon which the success of it very much 
depends, is to maintain, throughout, a current of easy, genteel, 
unaffected dialogue, without pertness and flippancy ; without too 
much studied and unseasonable wit ; without dulness and for- 
mality. Too few of our English Comedies are distinguished for 
this happy turn of conversation ; most of them are liable to one 
or other of the exceptions I have mentioned. The Careless 
Husband, and, perhaps, we may add the Provoked Husband, 
and the Suspicious Husband, seem to have more merit than most 
of them, for easy and natural dialogue. 

These are the chief observations that occur to me, concerning 
the general principles of this species of Dramatic Writing, as 
distinguished from Tragedy. But its nature and spirit will be 
still better understood, by a short history of its progress ; and a 
view of the manner in which it has been carried on by Authors 
of different nations. 

Tragedy is generally supposed to have been more ancient 
among the Greeks than Comedy. We have fewer lights con- 
cerning the origin and progress of the latter. What is most 
probable, is, that, like the other, it took its rise accidentally 
from the diversions peculiar to the feast of Bacchus, and from 
Thespis and his Cart ; till, by degrees, it diverged into an enter- 
tainment of a quite different nature from solemn and heroic 
Tragedy. Critics distinguish three stages of Comedy among 
the Greeks ; which they call the Ancient, the Middle, and the 
New. 

The Ancient Comedy consisted in direct and avowed satire 
against particular known persons, who were brought upon the 
Stage by name. Of this nature are the Plays of Aristophanes, 
eleven of which are still extant ; Plays of a very singular nature, 
and wholly different from all Compositions which have, since 
that age, borne the name of Comedy. They show what a tur- 
bulent and licentious Republic that of Athens was, and what 
unrestrained scope the Athenians gave to ridicule, when they 
could suffer the most illustrious personages of their state, their 
generals, and their magistrates, Cleon, Lamachus, Nicias, Alci- 
biades, not to mention Socrates the philosopher, and Euripides 
the Poet, to be publicly made the subject of Comedy. Several 
of Aristophanes's Plays are wholly political satires upon public 
management, and the conduct of generals and statesmen, during 
the Peloponnesian war. They are so full of political allegories 
and allusions, that it is impossible to understand them without 
a considerable knowledge of the history of those times. They 
abound too with Parodies of the great Tragic Poets, particularly 
of Euripides, to whom the Author bore much enmity, and has 
written two Comedies, almost wholly in order to ridicule him. 

Vivacity, Satire, and Buffoonery, are the characteristics of 
Aristophanes. Genius and force he displays upon many occa- 



LECT. XLVII.] ANCIENT COMEDY. 573 

sions ; but his performances, upon the whole, are not calculated 
to give us any high opinion of the Attic taste of wit in his age. 
They seem, indeed, to have been composed for the mob. The 
ridicule employed in them is extravagant ; the wit, for the most 
part, buffoonish and farcical ; the personal raillery, biting and 
cruel, and the obscenity that reigns in them is gross and in- 
tolerable. The treatment given by this Comedian, to Socrates 
the Philosopher, in his Play of " The Clouds," is well known ; 
but however it might tend to disparage Socrates in the public 
esteem, P. Brumoy, in his Theatre Grec, makes it appear, that 
it could not have been, as is commonly supposed, the cause of 
decreeing the death of that Philosopher, which did not happen 
till twenty-three years after the representation of Aristophanes's 
Clouds. There is a Chorus in Aristophanes's Plays ; but alto- 
gether of an irregular kind. It is partly serious, partly comic, 
sometimes mingles in the Action, sometimes addresses the Spec- 
tators, defends the Author, and attacks his enemies. 

Soon after the days of Aristophanes, the liberty of attacking 
persons on the Stage by name, being found of dangerous conse- 
quence to the public peace, was prohibited by law. The Chorus 
also was, at this period, banished from the Comic Theatre, as 
having been an instrument of too much license and abuse. 
Then, what is called the Middle Comedy, took rise, which was 
no other than an elusion of the law. Fictitious names, indeed, 
were employed ; but living persons were still attacked, and 
described in such a manner as to be sufficiently known. Of 
these Comic Pieces we have no remains. To them succeeded 
the New Comedy ; when the Stage, being obliged to desist 
wholly from personal ridicule, became, what it is now, the 
picture of manners and characters, but not of particular persons. 
Menander was the most distinguished Author of this kind 
among the Greeks; and both from the imitations of him by 
Terence, and the. account given of him by Plutarch, we have 
much reason to regret that his writings have perished ; as he 
appears to have reformed, in a very high degree, the public taste, 
and to have set the modeliof correct, elegant, and moral Comedy. 

The only remains which we now have of the New Comedy, 
among the Ancients, are the Plays of Plautus and Terence; 
both of whom were formed upon the Greek Writers. Plautus 
is distinguished for very expressive language, and a great degree 
of the Vis Comica. As he wrote in an early period, he bears 
several marks of the rudeness of the Dramatic Art, among the 
Romans, in his time. He opens his Plays with Prologues, 
which sometimes pre-occupy the subject of the whole Piece. 
The representation too, and the action of the Comedy, are some- 
times confounded ; the Actor departing from his character, and 
addressing the Audience. There is too much low wit and scur- 
rility in Plautus ; too much of quaint conceit, and play upon 
words. But withal, he displays more variety, and more force 



574 SPANISH COMEDY. [LECT. XL VII. 

than Terence. His characters are always strongly marked, 
though sometimes coarsely. His Amphytrion has been copied 
both by Moliere and by Drydcn; and his Miser also (in the 
Aulularia), is the foundation of a capital Play of Moliere's, which 
has been once and again imitated on the English Stage. Than 
Terence, nothing can be more delicate, more polished, and ele- 
gant. His Style is a model of the purest and most graceful 
Latinity. His dialogue is always decent and correct; and he 
possesses, beyond most Writers, the art of relating with that 
beautiful picturesque simplicity, which never fails to please. 
His morality is, in general, unexceptionable. The situations 
which he introduces, are often tender and interesting; and many 
of his sentiments touch the heart. Hence, he may be considered 
as the founder of that serious Comedy, which has, of late years, 
been revived, and of which I shall have occasion afterwards to 
speak. If he fails in anything, it is in sprightliness and strength. 
Both in his Characters, and in his Plots, there is too much 
sameness and uniformity throughout all his Plays; he copied 
Menander, and is said not to have equalled him.* In order to 
form a perfect Comic Author, an Union would be requisite of 
the spirit and fire of Plautus, with the grace and correctness of 
Terence. 

When we enter on the view of Modern Comedy, one of the 
first objects which presents itself, is the Spanish Theatre, which 
has been remarkably fertile in Dramatic Productions. Lopez 
de Yega, Guillin, and Calderon, are the chief Spanish Comedians. 
Lopez de Yega, who is by much the most famous of them, is 
said to have written above a thousand Plays ; but our surprise 
at the number of his productions will be diminished, by being 
informed of their nature. From the account which M. Perron 
de Castera, a French Writer, gives of them, it would seem, that 
our Shakespeare is perfectly a regular and methodical Author, in 
comparison of Lopez. He throws aside all regard to the Three 
Unities, or to any of the established forms of Dramatic Writing. 
One Play often includes many years, nay the whole life of a 
man. The Scene, during the first Act, is laid in Spain, the next 
in Italy, and the third in Africa. His Plays are mostly of the 
historical kind, founded on the annals of the country ; and they 
are, generally, a sort of Tragi-comedies, or a mixture of Heroic 
Speeches, Serious Incidents, War, and Slaughter, with much 
Ridicule and Buffoonery. Angels and Gods, Virtues and Yices, 
Christian Religion and Pagan Mythology, are all frequently 
jumbled together. In short, they are Plays like no other Dra- 

* Julius Caesar has given us bis opinion of Terence, in the following lines, which are 
preserved in the Life of Terence, ascribed to Suetonius : 

Tu quoque, tu in summis, 6 dimidiate Menander, 
Poneris. et merito, puri sermonis amator ; 
Lenibus atque utinam scriptis adjuncta foret vis 
Comica, ut sequato virtus polleret honore 
Cum Graecis, neque in hac despectus parte jaeeres ; 
Unum hoc maceror, et doleo tibi deesse, Terenti, 



LECT. XL VII.] FRENCH COMEDY. 575 

matic Compositions ; full of the romantic and extravagant. At 
the same time, it is generally admitted, that in the Works of 
Lopez de Vega, there are frequent marks of genius, and much 
force of imagination ; many well-drawn characters ; many happy 
situations ; many striking and interesting surprises ; and, from 
the source of his rich invention, the Dramatic Winters of other 
countries are said to have frequently drawn their materials. 
He himself apologizes for the extreme irregularity of his Com- 
position, from the prevailing taste of his countrymen, who 
delighted in a variety of events, in strange and surprising adven- 
tures, and a labyrinth of intrigues, much more than in a natural 
and regularly conducted Story. 

The general characters of the French Comic Theatre are, that 
it is correct, chaste, and decent. Several Writers of considerable 
note it has produced, such as Regnard, Dufresny, Dancourt, and 
Marivaux ; but the Dramatic Author in whom the French glory 
most, and whom they justly place at the head of all their Come~ 
dians, is the famous Moliere. There is, indeed, no Author, 
in all the fruitful and distinguished age of Louis XIV. who 
has attained a higher reputation than Moliere; or, who has 
more nearly reached the summit of perfection in his own art, 
according to the judgment of all the French Critics. Voltaire 
boldly pronounces him to be the most eminent Comic Poet of 
any age or country : nor, perhaps, is this the decision of mere 
partiality ; for taking him upon the whole I know none who 
deserves to be preferred to him. Moliere is always the Satirist 
only of vice or folly. He has selected a great variety of ridi- 
culous characters peculiar to the times in which he lived, and he 
has generally placed the ridicule justly. He possessed strong 
Comic powers ; he is full of mirth and pleasantry ; and. his plea- 
santry is always innocent. His Comedies in Verse, such as 
the Misanthrope and Tartuffe, are a kind of dignified Comedy, 
in which Vice is exposed, in the style of elegant and polite 
Satire. In his Prose Comedies, though there is abundance 
of ridicule, yet there is never anything found to offend a 
modest ear, or to throw contempt on sobriety and virtue. To- 
gether with those high qualities, Moliere has also some defects, 
which Voltaire, though his professed panegyrist, candidly ad- 
mits. He is acknowledged not to be happy in the unravelling 
of his Plots. Attentive more to the strong exhibition of cha- 
racters, than to the conduct of the intrigue, his unravelling 
is frequently brought on with too little preparation, and in an 
improbable manner, In his Verse Comedies, he is sometimes 
not sufficiently interesting, and too full of long speeches ; and in 
his more risible Pieces in Prose, he is censured for being too 
farcical. Few Writers, however, if any, ever possessed the spirit, 
or attained the true end of Comedy, so perfectly, upon the 
whole, as Moliere. His Tartuffe, in the Style of Grave Co- 
medy, and his Avare, in the Gay, are accounted his two capital 
productions. 



576 ENGLISH COMEDY. [LECT. XLV1I. 

From the English Theatre, we are naturally led to expect a 
greater variety of original characters in Comedy, and bolder 
strokes of wit and humour, than are to be found on any other 
Modern Stage. Humour is, in a great measure, the peculiar 
province of the English nation. The nature of such a free 
Government as ours ; and that unrestrained liberty which our 
manners allow to every man, of living entirely after his own 
taste, afford full scope to the display of singularity of character, 
and to the indulgence of humour in all its forms. Whereas, 
in France, the influence of a despotic court, the more established 
subordination of ranks, and the universal observance of the 
forms of politeness and decorum, spread a much greater unifor- 
mity over the outward behaviour and characters of men. Hence 
Comedy has a more . ample field, and can flow with a much 
freer vein in Britain, than in France. But it is extremely 
unfortunate, that, together with the freedom and boldness of 
the Comic spirit in Britain, there should have been joined 
such a spirit of indecency and licentiousness, as has disgraced 
English Comedy beyond that of any nation since the days of 
Aristophanes. 

The first age, however, of English Comedy, was not infected 
by this spirit. Neither the Plays of Shakespeare, nor those of 
Ben Jonson, can be accused of immoral tendency. Shakespeare's 
general character, which I gave in the last Lecture, appears with 
as great advantage in his Comedies, as in his Tragedies ; a strong, 
fertile, and creative genius, irregular in conduct, employed too 
often in amusing the mob, but singularly rich and happy in the 
1 description of characters and manners. Jonson is more regular 
in the conduct of his pieces, but stiff and pedantic ; though not 
destitute of Dramatic Genius. In the plays of Beaumont and 
Fletcher, much fancy and invention appear, and several beau- 
tiful passages may be found. But, in general, they abound with 
romantic and improbable incidents, with overcharged and unna- 
tural characters, and with coarse and gross allusions. These 
Comedies of the last age, by the change of public manners, and 
of the turn of conversation, since their time, are now become too 
obsolete to be very agreeable. For we must observe, that 
Comedy, depending much on the prevailing modes of external 
behaviour, becomes sooner antiquated than any other species of 
writing ; and, when antiquated, it seems harsh to us, and looses 
its power of pleasing. This is especially the case with respect 
to the Comedies of our own country, where the change of man- 
ners is more sensible and striking than in any foreign production. 
In our own country, the present mode of behaviour is always the 
standard of politeness; and whatever departs from it appears 
uncouth; whereas in the Writings of foreigners, we are less 
acquainted with any standard of this kind, and of course are less 
hurt by the want of it. Plautus appeared more antiquated to 
the Romans, in the age of Augustus, than he does now to us. 



LECT, XLVII.] ENGLISH COMEDYe 577 

It is a high proof of Shakespeare's uncommon genius, that, not- 
withstanding these disadvantages, his character of FalstafF is 
to this day admired, and his " Merry Wives of Windsor " read 
with pleasure. 

It was not till the era of the Restoration of King Charles II. 
that the licentiousness which was observed, at that period, to 
infect the court, and the nation in general, seized, in a peculiar 
manner, upon Comedy as its province, and, for almost a whole 
century, retained possession of it. It was then first, that the 
Rake became the predominant character, and, with some excep- 
tions, the Hero of every Comedy. The ridicule was thrown, 
not upon vice and folly, but much more commonly upon chastity 
and sobriety. At the end of the Play, indeed, the Rake is com- 
monly, in appearance, reformed, and professes that he is to be- 
come a sober man : but throughout the Play, he is set up as the 
model of a fine gentleman ; and the agreeable impression made 
by a sort of sprightly licentiousness, is left upon the imagination, 
as a picture of the pleasurable enjoyment of life; while the 
reformation passes slightly away, as a matter of mere form. To 
what sort of moral conduct such public entertainments as these 
tend to form the youth of both sexes, may be easily imagined. 
Yet this has been the spirit which has prevailed upon the Comic 
Stage of Great Britain, not only during the reign of Charles II. 
but throughout the reigns of King William and Queen Anne, 
and down to the days of King George II. 

Dryden was the first considerable Dramatic Writer after the 
Restoration ; in whose Comedies, as in all his works, there are 
found many strokes of genius, mixed with great carelessness, and 
visible marks of hasty composition. As he sought to please only, 
he went along with the manners of the times ; and has carried 
through all his Comedies that vein of dissolute licentiousness, 
which was then fashionable. In some of them, the indecency 
was so gross, as to occasion, even in that age, a prohibition of 
being brought upon the Stage. # 

Since his time, the Writers of Comedy, of greatest note, 
have been Cibber, Vanburgh, Farquhar, and Congreve. Cib- 
ber has written a great many Comedies ; and though, in several 
of them, there be much sprightliness, and a certain pert vivacity 
peculiar to him, yet they are so forced and unnatural in the in- 
cidents, as to have generally sunk into obscurity, except two, 
which have always continued in high favour with the Public, 
"The Careless Husband," and "The Provoked Husband." 
The former is 'remarkable for the polite and easy turn of the 
Dialogue ; and, with the exception of one indelicate Scene, is 

* " The mirth which he excites in Comedy, will, perhaps, he found not so much to 
arise from any original humour, or peculiarity of character, nicely distinguished, and 
diligently pursued, as from incidents and cirumstances, artifices and surprises, from jests 
of action, rather than sentiment. What he had of humorous, or passionate, he seems to 
have had, not from nature, but from other Poets ; if not always a plagiary, yet, at least, 
an imitator." Johnson's Life of Dryden. 



578 ' ENGLISH COMEDY. [LECT. XLVII. 

tolerably moral too in the conduct, and in the tendency. The 
latter, " The Provoked Husband," (which was the joint produc- 
tion of Yanburgh and Cibber,) is perhaps, on the whole, the 
best Comedy in the English Language. It is liable, indeed, to 
one critical objection, of having a double Plot : as the Incidents 
of the Wronghead Family, and those of Lord Townley's, are 
separate, and independent of each other. But this irregularity 
is compensated by the natural characters, the fine painting, and 
the happy strokes of humour with which it abounds. We are, 
indeed, surprised to find so unexceptionable a Comedy proceed- 
ing from two such loose Authors ; for, in its general strain, it is 
calculated to expose licentiousness and folly; and would do 
honour to any stage. 

Sir John Vanburgh has spirit, wit, and ease ; but he is to the 
last degree gross and indelicate. He is one of the most immoral 
of all our Comedians. His "Provoked Wife" is full of such 
indecent sentiments and allusions, as ought to explode it out 
of all reputable society. His "Relapse" is equally cen- 
surable ; and these are his only two considerable Pieces. Con- 
greve is, unquestionably, a Writer of genius. He is lively, 
witty, and sparkling ; full of character, and full of action. His 
chief fault as a Comic Writer is, that he overflows with wit. It 
is often introduced unseasonably; and, almost every where, 
there is too great a proportion of it for natural well-bred con- 
versation.* Farquhar is a light and gay Writer : less correct, 
and less sparkling than Congreve ; but he has more ease, and, 
perhaps, fully as great a share of the Vis Comica. The two 
best, and least exceptionable of his Plays are the " Recruiting 
Officer," and the " Beaux Stratagem." I say the least exception- 
able ; for, in general, the tendency of both Congreve and Far- 
quhar's Plays is immoral. Throughout them all, the Rake, 
the loose intrigue, and the life of licentiousness, are the objects 
continually held up to view ; as if the assemblies of a great and 
polished nation could be amused with none but vicious objects. 
The indelicacy of these Writers, in the female characters which 
they introduce, is particularly remarkable. Nothing can be 
more awkward than their representations of a woman of virtue 
and honour. Indeed, there are hardly any female characters in 
their Plays, except two ; women of loose principles, or when a 
virtuous character is attempted to be drawn, women of affected 
manners. 

The censure which I have now passed upon these celebrated 
Comedians, is far from being overstrained or severe. Ac- 
customed to the indelicacy of our own Comedy, and amused 
with the wit and humour of it, its immorality too easily escapes 
our observation. But all foreigners, the French especially, who 
are accustomed to a better regulated and more decent Stage, 

* Dr. Johnson says of him, in his Life/that *' his personages are a kind of intellectual 
gladiators ; every sentence is to ward or to strike ; the contest of smartness is never 
intermitted ; his wit is a meteor, playing to and fro, with alternate coruscations,"j 



LECT. XL VII.] ENGLISH COMEDY. 579 

speak of it with surprise and astonishment. Voltaire, who is, 
assuredly, none of the most austere moralists, plumes himself 
not a little upon the superior bienseance of the French Theatre ; 
and says that the language of English Comedy is the language 
of debauchery, not of politeness. M. Moralt, in his Letters 
upon the French and English Nations, ascribes the corruption 
of manners in London to Comedy, as its chief cause. Their 
Comedy, he says, is like that of no other country ; it is the 
school in which the youth of both sexes familiarize themselves 
with vice, which is never represented there as vice, but as mere 
gaiety. As for Comedies, says the ingenious M. Diderot, in his 
observations upon Dramatic Poetry, the English have none ; 
they have in their place, satires, full indeed of gaiety and force, 
but without morals, and without taste ; sans mceurs et sans gout. 
There is no wonder, therefore, that Lord Kaims, in his Elements 
of Criticism, should have expressed himself, upon this subject, 
of the indelicacy of English Comedy, in terms much stronger 
than any that I have used ; concluding his invective against it 
in these words : " How odious ought those Writers to be, who 
thus spread infection through their native country ; employing 
the talents which they have received from their Maker most 
traitorously against Himself, by endeavouring to corrupt and 
disfigure his creatures. If the Comedies of Congreve did not 
rack him with remorse in his last moments, he must have been 
lost to all sense of virtue." Vol. II. 479. 

I am happy, however, to have it in my power to observe, that 
of late years, a sensible reformation has begun to take place in 
English Comedy. We have, at last, become ashamed of making 
our public entertainments rest wholly upon profligate characters 
and scenes; and our later Comedies, of any reputation, are 
much purified from the licentiousness of former times. If they 
have not the spirit, the ease, and the wit of Congreve and Far- 
quhar, in which respect they must be confessed to be somewhat 
deficient ; this praise, however, they justly merit, of being in- 
nocent and moral. 

For this reformation, we are, questionless, much indebted 
to the French Theatre, which has not only been, at all times, 
more chaste and inoffensive than ours, but has, within these few 
years, produced a species of' Comedy, of still a graver turn than 
any that I have yet mentioned. This, which is called the 
Serious or Tender Comedy, and was termed by its opposers La 
Comedie Larmoyante, is not altogether a modern invention. 
Several of Terence's Plays, as the Andria, in particular, partake 
of this character ; and as we know that Terence copied Menan- 
der, we have sufficient reason to believe that his Comedies also 
were of the same kind. The nature of this composition does 
not by any means exclude gaiety and ridicule ; but it lays the 
chief stress upon tender and interesting situations ; it aims at 
being sentimental, and touching the heart by means of the 
capital incidents ; it makes our pleasure arise, not so much from 



580 ENGLISH COMEDY. [LECT. XLVII. 

the laughter which it excites, as from the tears of aifection and 
joy which it draws forth. 

In English, Steele's Conscious Lovers is a Comedy which ap- 
proaches to this character, and it has always been favourably 
received by the public. In French, there are several Dramatic 
Compositions of this kind, which possess considerable merit and 
reputation, such as the " Melanide," and " Prejuge a la Mode, " 
of La Chaussee; the "Pere de Famille," of Diderot; the 
" Cenie," of Mad. Graffigny ; and the " Nanine," and « L'En- 
fant Prodigue," of Voltaire. 

When this form of Comedy first appeared in France, it ex- 
cited a great controversy among the Critics. It w T as objected to 
as a dangerous and unjustifiable innovation in Composition. It 
is not Comedy, said they, for it is not founded on laughter and 
ridicule. It is not Tragedy, for it does not involve us in sorrow. 
By what name then can it be called ? or what pretensions hath 
it to be comprehended under Dramatic Writing ? But this was 
trifling, in the most egregious manner, with critical names and 
distinctions, as if these had invariably fixed the essence, and 
ascertained the limits, of every sort of Composition. Assuredly 
it is not necessary that all Comedies should be formed on one 
precise model. Some may be entirely light and gay ; others 
may be more serious ; some may be of a mixed nature ; and all 
of them, properly executed, may furnish agreeable and useful 
entertainment to the Public, by suiting the different tastes of 
men.* Serious and tender Comedy has no title to claim to itself 
the possession of the Stage, to the exclusion of ridicule and 
gaiety. But when it retains only its proper place, without 
usurping the province of any other ; when it is carried on with 
resemblance to real life, and without introducing romantic and 
unnatural situations, it may certainly prove both an interesting 
and an agreeable species of Dramatic Writing. If it become 
insipid and drawling, this must be imputed to the fault of the 
Author, not to the nature of the Composition, which may admit 
much liveliness and vivacity. 

In general, whatever form Comedy assumes, whether gay or 
serious, it may always be esteemed a mark of Society advancing 
in true politeness, when those theatrical exhibitions, which are 
designed for public amusement, are .cleared from indelicate senti- 
ment, or immoral tendency. Though the licentious buffoonery 
of Aristophanes amused the Greeks for a while, they advanced, 
by degrees, to a chaster and juster taste ; and the like progress 
of refinement may be concluded to take place among us, when 
the Public receive with favour, Dramatic Compositions of such 
a strain and spirit, as entertained the Greeks and Bomans, in 
the days of Menander and Terence. 

* " II y a beaucoup de tres bonnes pieces, ou il ne regne que de la gayete ; d'autres 
toutes serieuses ; d'autres melangees ; d'autres, ou 1'aUendrissement va jusq'aux larmes. 
II ne faut donner exclusion a aucune genre ; et si Ton me demandoit, Quel genre est 
le meilleur ? je r6pondrois, Celui qui est le mieux traiteV' Voltaire. 

-4r &-£*.- ■ I l ' 



INDEX. 



Accents, thrown farther back from the ter- 
mination in the English than in any other 
language, 98. Seldom more than one in 
English words, 388. Govern the measure 
of English verse, 455. 

Achilles, his character in the Iliad, examined, 
516. 

Action, much used to assist language in an 
imperfect state, 59. And by ancient ora- 
tors and players, 61. Fundamental rule of 
propriety in, 395. Cautions with respect 
to, 396. In epic poetry, the requisites of, 
503. 

Acts, the division of a play into five, an ar- 
bitrary limitation, 546. These pauses in 
representation ought to fall properly, 547. 

Adam, his character in Milton's Paradise 
Lost, 536. 

Addison, general view of his Essay on the 
Pleasures of the Imagination, 24. His 
invocation of the muse in his Campaign, 
censured, 43. Blemishes in his style, 116, 
117,125. Ease and perspicuity of, 129, 
130, 132. His beautiful description of light 
and colours, 159. Instance of his use of 
mixed metaphor, 170. Improper use of 
similes, 190. His general character as a 
writer, 217. Character of his Spectator, 
225. Critical examination of some of 
those papers, 226. Remarks on his criti- 
cism of Tasso's Aminta, 468, note. His 
tragedy of Cato critically examined, 545, 
552, 557, 559. 

Adjectives, common to all languages, 87. 
How they came to be classed with nouns, 
88. 

Adverbs, their nature and use defined, 92. 
Importance of their position in a sentence 
illustrated, 116. 

yEneid of Virgil, critical examination of that 
poem, 520. The subject, ibid. Action, 

521. Is deficient in characters, ibid. Dis- 
tribution and management of the subject, 

522. Abounds with awful and tender 
scenes, ibid. The descent of ^Eneas into 
hell, 523. The poem left unfinished by 
Virgil, 522, 524. 

iEschines, a comparison between him and 

Demosthenes, 285. 
/Eschylus, his character as a tragic writer, 561 . 



./Etna, remarks on Virgil's description of that 
mountain, 41. And on that by Sir Rich- 
ard Black more, 42. 

Affectation, the disadvantages of it, in public 
speaking, 397. 

Ages, four, peculiarly fruitful in learned men, 
pointed out, 410. 

Akenside, his comparison between sublimity 
in natural and moral objects, 30, note. 
Instance of his happy allusion to figures, 
159. Character of his Pleasures of the 
Imagination, 476. 

Allegory, explained, 173. Anciently a fa- 
vourite method of conveying instructions, 
174. Allegorical personages improper 
agents in epic poetiy, 510, 535. 

Alphabet of letters, the considerations which 
led to the invention of, 73. Remote ob- 
scurity of this invention, ibid. The alpha- 
bets of different nations derived from one 
common source, 74. 

Ambiguity in style, whence it proceeds, 115. 

American languages, the figurative stvle of, 
64,156. 

Amplification, in speech, what, 198. Itsprin- 
cipal instrument, ibid. 

Anagnorisis, in ancient tragedy, explained, 
548. 

Ancients and moderns distinguished, 410. 
The merits of ancient writers are now 
finally ascertained, 411. The progress 
of knowledge favourable to the moderns, 
in forming a comparison between them, 
412. In philosophy and history, 413. The 
efforts of genius greater among the an- 
cients, 414. A mediocrity of genius now 
more diffused, ibid. 

Annals and history, the distinction between, 
431. 

Antithesis in language explained, 193. The 
too frequent use of, censured, 194. 

Apostrophe, the nature of this figure ex- 
plained, 185. Fine one from Cicero, 304, 
note. 

Arabian Nights' Entertainments, a character 
of those tales, 442. 

Arabian poetry, its character, 451. 

Arbuthnot, character of his epistolary writ- 
ings, 440. 

Architecture, sublimity in, whence it arises, 
49. r l he sources of beauty in, 50. 

A rguments, the proper management of, in a 



582 



INDEX. 



discourse, 372. Analytic and synthetic 
methods, 374. Arrangement of, 375. Are 
not to be too much multiplied, 376. 

Ariosto, character of his Orlando Furioso, 
443 530. 

A ristophanes, character of his comedies, 572, 
573. 

Aiistotle, his rules for dramatic and epic 
compositions, whence derived, 21. His 
definition of a sentence, 113. His ex- 
tended sense of the term metaphor, 163. 
Character of his style, 204, 209. His insti- 
tutions of rhetoric, 2\3. His definition of 
tragedy considered, 540. His observations 
on tragic characters, 554. 

Arithmetical figu.es, universal characters, 72. 

Ark of the covenant, choral service, per 
formed in 'he procession of bringing it 
back to Mount Sinn, 49). 

Armstrong, character of his Art of Preserv- 
ing Health, 476. 

Art, woiks of, considered as a source of 
beauty, 49. 

Articles, in language, the use of, 79. Their 
importance in the English language illus- 
trated, 80. 

Articulation, clearness of, necessity in public 
speaking, 387. 

Associations, academical, recommended, 406. 
Instructions for the regulation of, ibid. 

Ath nians, ancient character of, 279. Elo- 
que-ce of, ibid. 

Atterbnry, a more harmonious writer than 
Tillotson, 145. Critical Examination of 
one of his sermons. 343. His exordium to 
a 30th of January sermon, 364. 

Attici and Asiani, parties at Rome, account 
of, 239. 

Authors, petty, why no friends to criticism, 
21. M\ hy the most ancient afford the 
most striking instances of sublimity, 34. 
Must write with purity to gain esteem, 
101. 

B 

Bacon, his observations on romances, 442. 

Ballads, have great influence over the man- 
neis of a people, 441. Were the first 
vehicles of historical knowledge and in- 
struction, 449. 

Bar, the eloquence of, defined, 275. Why 
more confined than the pleadings before 
ancient tribunals, 297. Distinction be- 
tween the motives of pleading at the bar, 
and speaking in popular assemblies, 3!4. 
In what respects ancient pleadings differ 
from those of modern times, 315. Instruc- 
tions for pleadeis 316, 36^. 

Bards, ancient, the first founders of law and 
civilization, 449. 

Barrow. Dr., character of his style, 206. 
Character of his seimons, 341. 

Beaumont and Fletcher, their characters as 
dramatic poets, 576. 

Beauty, the emotion ra ; sed by, d'stingm'shed 
from that of sublimity, 45. Is a term of 
vague application, ibid. Colour, 46. Fi- 
gure, ibid. Hogarth's line of beauty, and 
line of grace, considered. 47. Motion. 
48. A landscape the most complete as- 
semblage of beautiful objects, ibid. The 
human countenance. 49. Works of art, 



ibid. The influence of fitness and design 
in our ideas of beauty, ibid. Beauty in 
literary composition, 50. Novelty, 51. 
Imitation, ibid. 

Bergenia, a German critic, writes a treatise 
on the sublimity of Caesar's Commentanes, 
32. 

Berkeley, Bishop, character of his Dialogues 
on the Existence of Matter, 437. 

Biography, as a class of historical composi- 
tion, characterized, 431. 

Blackmore, Sir Richard, remarks on his de- 
scription of Mount iEtna, 42. 

Blackwall. his chaiacter as a writer, 219. 

Bodean, his character as a didactic poet, 479. 

Bolingbroke, instances of inaccuracy in his 
style, 12 3, 134. A beautiful climax from, 
131. A beautiful metaphor from, 164. 
His general character as a politician and 
philosopher, i id. His general character 
as a writer, 220. 

Bombast in writing, described, 44. 

Bossu, his definition of an epic poem, 500. 
His account of the composition of the Iliad, 
ibid. 

Bossuet, M., instances of apostrophes to per- 
sonified objects, in his funeral orations, 185, 
vole. Conclusion of his funeial oration on 
the Prince ol Conde, 384. 

Britain, Great, not eminent for the study of 
eloquence, *94. Compared with France 
in this respect, ibid. 

Brnyere, his parallel between the eloquence 
of the pulpit, and the bar, 329, note. 

Buchanan, his character as an historian, 430. 

Building, how rendered sublime, 29. 



Cadmus, account of his alphabet, 74. 

Caesar's Commentaries, the style of, charac- 
terize'', 32. Is considered by Bergerus, as 
a standard of sublime waiting, ibid. In- 
stance of his happy talent in historical 
painting, 427, note. His character of Te- 
rence the dramatist, 574, note. 

Cam^ens, critical examination of his Lusiad, 
530 Confused machinery of, 531. 

Campbell, Dr., his observations on English 
particles, 86,«o/e. 

Caru.el, Mount, metaphorical allusions to, in 
Hebrew poetry, 492. 

Casimi , his character as a lyric poet. 473. 

Cafast ophe, the proper conduct of, in dra- 
matic repr sentations, 548. 

Caudinae Furcae. I. ivy's happy description of 
the disgrace of the Roman army there, 426. 

Celtic language, i's antiquity and character, 
94. The remains of it, where to be found, 
ibid. Poetry, its character, 450. 

Characters the danger of labouring them too 
much in historical woks, 429. The due 
requisites of, in tragedy, 553. 

Chinese language, character of, 60. And 
writing, 72. 

Chivalry, origin of, 443. 

Chorus, ancient, described, 542. Was the 
origin of tragedy, ibid. Inconveniences of, 
5^3. How it might properly be introduced 
on the modern theatre. 544. 

Chronology, a due attention to, necessary in 
historical compositions, 420. 



INDEX. 



583 



Chrysostom, St., his oratorical character, 293. ! 
Cibber, his character as a dramatic writer, | 
577. 

Cicero, his ideas of taste, 10, vote. His dis- j 
tirjclion between amare and diligere, 108. 
His observation on style, 114. Very at- 
tentive to the beauties of climax, 131. Is 
the most harmonious of all w liters, 137. 
His remarks on the power of music in ora- 
tions, 140. His attention to harmony too 
visible, 144. Instance of his happy talent 
of adapting sound to sense, 145. His ac- 
count of the origin of figurative language, 
155. His observations on suiting language 
to the subject, 166. His rule for the use 
of metaphor, 167. Instance of antithesis 
in 193. The figure of speech called \ision, 
197. His caution against bestowing pro- 
fuse ornament on an oration, 201. His 
distinctions of style, 203. H s own cha- 
racter as a write i, 205. His character of 
the Grecian orators, 281. His own cha- 
racter as an orator, 287. Compared with 
Demosthenes, 289. iMasterly apostrophe 
in, 304*, note. His method of studying the 
judi< ial causes he undertook, to plead, 316. 
State of the prosecution of Avitns Cluentius, 
321. Analysis of Cicero's oration for him, 
ibid. The exordium to his second oration 
against Rullus, 361. His method of pre- 
paring introductions to his oration, 362- 
Excelled in narration, 370. His defence 
of Milo, ihid. 376 Instance of the pathetic 
in his last oration against Venes, 382. 
Character of his treatise, De Oratove, 408. 
Character of his Dialogues, 436. His 
epistles, 439. 

Clarendon, Lord, remarks on his style, 121. 
His character as an historian, 431. 

Clark, Dr., the style of his sermons charac- 
terized, 341. 

Classics, ancient, their merits now finally set- 
tled beyond controversy, 411. The study 
of them recommended, 416. 

Climax, a great beauty in composition, 131. i 
Tn what it consists, 198. 

Cluentius Avitus, history of his prosecution, ' 
321. His cause undertaken by Cicero, j 
ibid. Analysis of Cicero's oration for j 
him, ibid. 

Colours, considered as the foundation of 
beauty, 46. 

Co Tied v, how distinguished fom tragedy, j 
539, 668. Rules for the conduct of, 569. | 
The characters in, ought <o be of our own i 
conntiy. and oi our own time, ibid. Two J 
kinds of, 570. Characters ought to be dis- 
tinguished, 571. Style, ibid. Rise and 
progress of comedy, 572. Spanish comedy, 
574. French comedy r , 575. English come- 
dy, 576. Licentiousn' ss of, from the era 
of the restoration, 577. The reformation 
of, to what owing, 579. General remarks, 
580. 

Comparison, distinguished from metiphor, 
162. I he nature of this figure explained, 
188. 

Composition. See Literary composition. 

Congreve, the plot of his Mourning Bride 
embarrassed, 546. General character of 
this tiagedy, 567, His comedies, 578 

Conjugation of verbs, the varieties of 89. 



Conviction, distinguished from persuasion, 
274. 

Copulatives, cautions for the use of them, 126. 

Corneille, his character as a tragic writer, 
503. 

Couplets, the first introduction of, into En- 
glish poetry, 458. 

Cowley, intances of forced metaphors in his 
poems, 167. His use of similes censured, 
192. His general character as a poet, 472. 

Crevier, his character of several eminent 
French writers, 404, note. 

Criticism, true and pedantic, distinguished, 
5. Its object, 20. Its origin. '21. Why 
complained of by petty authors, ibid. 
May sometimes decide against the voice 
of the public 22. 

Cyphers, or arithmetical figures, a kind of 
universal character, 72. 



David, King, his magnificent institutions for 
the cultivation of sacred music and poetry, 
489. His character as a poet, 497. 

Debate, in popu'ar assemblies, the eloquence 
of, defined, 276. More particularly^con- 
sidered, 299. Rules for, ibid. 

Declamation, unsupported by sound reason- 
in?, false eloquence, 299. 

Declension of i ouns considered, in various 
languages, 83. Whether cases or pre- 
positions were most anciently used, 84. 
Which of them are most useful and beauti- 
ful, 85. 

Deities, heathen, probable cause of the num- 
ber of, 179. 

Deliberative orations, what, 298. 

Delivery, the importance of, in public speak- 
ing, 306, 385 The four chief requisites 
in, 386. The powers ot voice, ibid. Ar- 
ticulation, 387. Pronunciation, ibid. 
Emphasis. 389. Pauses, 390. Declama- 
tory delivery, 394. Action, 395. Atfec- 
tation, 397. 

Demetrius, Phalerius, the rhetorician, his 
character, 286. 

Demonstrative orations, what, 2G8. 

Demosthenes, his eloquence characterized, 
279. His expedient to surmount the 
disadvantages of his person and address, 
283. His opp sition to Philip of Mace- 
don, 284. His rivalship with iEschines, 
285. His style and action, ibid. Compared 
with Cicero, 289. Why his orations still 
please in perusal, 300. Extracts from his 
Phillippics, 307. His definition of the 
several points of oratory, o85. 

Description, the great test of a poet's ima- 
gination, 479. Selection of circumstances, 
480. Inanimate objects should be en- 
livened, 483. Choice of epithets, 485. 

Description and imitation, the distinction 
between, 53. 

Des Brosses, his speculations on the expres- 
sive power of radical letters' and syllables, 
5s,w,/e. 

Dialogue, writing, the properties of, 435. Is 
very difficult to execute, ibid. Modern 
dialogues characterized, 436. 

Didactic poetry, its nature explained, 474. 
The most celebrated productions in this 



584 



INDEX. 



class specified, ibid. Rules' for composi- 
tions of this kind, 475. Proper embellish- 
ments of, ibid. 

Diderot, M., his character of English 
comedy, 579. 

Dido, her character in the iEneid examined, 
521. 

Dionysius of Halicarnassus, his ideas of ex- 
cellency in a sentence, 138. His distinc- 
tions of style, 203. Character of his 
treatise on Grecian Oratory, 282. His 
comparison between Lysias and Isocrates, 
283, note. His criticism on Thiicydides, 
420. 

Discourse. See Oration. 

Dramatic poetry, the origin of, 451. Dis- 
tinguished by its objects, 539. See Tra- 
gedy and Comedy. 

Dryden one of the first reformers of our style, 
208. Johnson's character of his prose 
style, ibid. note. His character as a poet, 
459. His character of Shakespeare, 565, 
note. His own character as a dramatic 
writer, 566, 577. 

Du Bos, Abbe, his remark on the theatrical 
compositions of the ancients, 139. 



E 



Education, liberal, an essential requisite for 
eloquence, 401, 

Egypt, the style of the hieroglyphical writing 
of, 70. This an early stage of the ,'art of 
writing, 71. The alphabet probably in- 
vented in that country, 73. 

Eloquence, the several objects of considera- 
tion under this head, 273. Definition of 
the term, ibid. Fundamental jmaxims of 
the art, 274. Defended against the ob- 
jection of the abuse of the art of persua- 
sion, 275. Three kinds of eloquence dis- 
tinguished, ibid. Oratory, the highest 
degree of, the offspring of passion, 276. 
Requisites for eloquence, 277. French 
eloquence, ibid. Grecian, 278. Rise and 
character of the rhetoricians of Greece, 
280. Roman, 286. The Attici and 
Asiani, 289. Comparison between Cicero 
and Demosthenes, ibid. The schools of the 
declaimers, 292. The eloquence £of the 
primitive fathers of the church, 293. 
General remarks on modern eloquence, 
294. Parliament, 297. The bar, ibid. 
The pulpit, ibid. The three kinds of ora- 
tions distinguished by the ancients, 298. 
These distinctions how far correspondent 
with those made at present, ibid. Elo- 
quence of popular assemblies considered, 
299. The foundation of eloquence, 300. 
The danger of trusting to prepared 
speeches at public meetings, 301. Neces- 
sary premeditation pointed out, ibid. 
Method, 302. Style and expression, 303. 
Impetuosity, 304. Attention to decorums, 
305. Delivery, 306, 385. Summary, 385. 
See Cicero, Demosthenes, Oration, and 
Pulpit. 

Emphasis, its importance in public speaking, 
389. Rule for, ibid. 

English language, the arrangements of words 
in, more refined than that of ancient 



languages, 68. But more limited, ibid. 
The principles of general grammar seldom 
applied to it, 76. The important use of 
articles in, 79. All substantive nouns of 
inanimate objects, of the neuter gender, 
81. The place of declension in, supplied 
by prepositions, 85. The various tenses 
of English verbs, 90. Historical view of 
the English language, 94. The Celtic the 
primitive language of Britain, ibid. The 
Teutonic tongue the basis of our present 
speech, 95. Its irregularities accounted 
for, ibid. Its copiousness, 96. Compared 
with the French language, ibid. Its style 
characterized ,97. Its flexibility, ibid. Is 
more harmonous than is generally allowed, 
98. Is rather strong than graceful, ibid. 
Accent thrown farther back in English 
words than in those of any other language, 
ibid. General properties of the English 
tongue, 99. Why so loosely and inacciA 
rately written, ibid. The" fundamental 
rules of syntax, common to both the En- 
glish and Latin. 100. No author can 
gain esteem if he does not write with 
purity, 101. Grammatical authors recom- 
mended, ibid, note. 

Epic poetry, the standard of, 415. Is the 
highest effort of poetical genius, 499. The 
characters obscured by critics, 500. Ex- 
amination of Bossu's account of the for- 
mation of the Iliad, ibid. Epic poetry 
considered as to its moral tendency, 502. 
Predominant character of, ibid. Action 
of, 503. Episodes, 504. The subject 
should be of remote date, 505. Modern 
history more proper for dramatic writing 
than for epic poetry, 506. The story must 
be interesting and skilfully managed, ibid. 
The intrigue, ibid. The question con- 
sidered whether it ought to end success- 
fully, 507. Duration of the action, ibid. 
Characters of the personages, 508. The 
principal hero, ibid. The machinery, 509. 
Narration, 510. Loose observations, 511. 

Episode, defined with reference to epic 
poetry, 504. Rules for conduct of, ibid. 

Epistolary writing, general remarks on, 437. 

Eve, her character in Milton's Paradise 
Lost, 537. 

Euripides, instance of his excellence in 
the pathetic, 558, note. His character as 
a tragic writer, 561. 

Exclamations, the proper use of, 561. Mode 
of their operation, ibid. Rule for the em- 
ployment of, ibid. 

Exercise improves both bodily and mental V 
powers, 11. 

Exordium of a discourse, the objects ofj 360. 
Rules for the composition of, 362. 

Explication of the subject of a sermon, ob- 
servation on, 371. 



Face, human, the beauty of, complex, 49. 
Farquhar, his character a dramatic writer, 

578. 
Fathers, Latin, character of their style of 

eloquence, 293. 
Fenelon, archbishop, his parallel between 

Demosthenes and Cicero, 291, note. His 



INDEX. 



585 



remarks on the composition of a sermon, 
367. Critical examination of his adven- 
tures of Telemachus, 532. 

Fielding, a character of his novels, 445. 

Figurative style of language defined, 149. Is 
not a scholastic invention, but a natural 
effusion of imagination, 150. How de- 
scribed by rhetoricians, 151. Will not 
render a cold or empty composition in- 
teresting, 152. The pathetic and sublime 
reject figures of speech, 153. Origin of, 
ibid. How they contribute to the beauty 
of style, 157. Illustrate description, 158. 

p Heighten emotion, ibid. The rhetorical 
names and classes of figures frivolous, 160. 
The beauties of compositions not de- 
pendent on tropes and figures, 199. 
Figures must always rise naturally from 
the subject, 200. Are not to be profusely 
used, ibid. The talent of using derived 
from nature and not to be created, 202. If 
improperly introduced, are a deformity, 
201, note. See Metaphor. 

Figure, considered as a source of beauty, 46. 

Figures of speech, the origin of, 62. 

Figures of thought, among rhetoricians, de- 
fined, 151. 

Fitness and design, considered as sources of 
beauty, 50. 

Fleece, a poem, harmonious passage from, 
148. 

Fontenelle, character of his Dialogues, 437. 

French, Norman, when introduced into En- 
gland, 95. 

French writers, general remarks on their 
style, 206. Eloquence, 277, 294. French 
and English oratory compared, 295. 

Frigidity in writing characterized, 44. 

G 

Gay, a character of his pastorals, 468. 

Gender of nouns, foundation of, 80. 

Genius distinguished from taste, 23. Its 
import, ibid. Includes taste, 24. The 
pleasures of the imagination, a striking 
testimony of divine benevolence, 25. 
True, is nursed by liberty, 277. In arts 
and writing, why displayed more in one 
age than in another, 409. Was more 
vigorous "in the ancients than in the 
moderns, 411. A general mediocrity of, 
now diffused, 414. 

Gesner, a character of his Idylls, 467. 

Gestures, in public oratory. See Action. 

Gil Bias, of le Sage, character of that novel, 
444. 

Girard, Abbe, character of his Synonymes 
Francois, 111, note. 

Gordon, instances of his unnatural disposi- 
tion of words, 129. 

Gorgias, of Leontium, the rhetorician, his 
character, 281. 

Gothic poetry, its character, 450. 

Gracchus, C, his declamations regulated by 
musical rules, 139. 

Grammar, general, the principles of, little 
attended to by writers, 76. The division 
of the several parts of speech, 77. Nouns 
substantive, 78. Articles, 79. Number, 
gender, and case of nouns, 80. Preposi- 
tions, 83. Pronouns, 86. Adjectives, 87. 
Verbs, 88. Verbs the most artificial and 



complex of all the parts of speech, 91. 
Adverbs, 92. Prepositions and conjunc- 
tions, ibid. Importance of the study of 
grammar, 93.* ^^ 

Grandeur. See Sublimity. 

Greece, short account of the ancient repub- 
lics of, 278. Eloquence carefully studied 
there, 279. Characters of the distinguished 
orators of, 280. Rise and character of 
the rhetoricians, 281. 

Greek, a musical language, 61, 139. Its 
flexibility, 97. Writers distinguished for 
simplicity, 215. 

Guarini, character of his Pastor Fido, 468. 

Guicciardini, his character as an historian, 
430. 

H 

Habakkuk, sublime representation of the 
Deity in, 34. 

Harris, explanatory simile cited from, 189. 

Hebrew Poetry, in what points of view to be 
considered, 487. The ancient pronuncia- 
tion of, lost, 488. Music and poetry early 
cultivated among the Hebrews, ibid. Con- 
struction of Hebrew Poetry, 489. Is dis- 
tinguished by a concise, strong, figurative 
expression, 491. The metaphors employed 
in, suggested by the climate and nature of 
the land of Judaea, ibid. Bold and sublime 
instances of personification, 495. Book of 
Proverbs, 496. Lamentations of Jeremiah, 
ibid. Book of Job, 498. 

Helen, her character in the Iliad examined, 
515. 

Hell, the various descents into, given by 
epic poets, show the gradual improvement 
of notions concerning a future state, 533. 

Henriade. See Voltaire. 

Herodotus, his character as an historian, 
206, 420. 

Heroism, sublime instances of, pointed out, 
29. ; 

Hervey, character of his style, 212. 

Hieroglyphics, the second stage of the art of 
writing, 70. Of Egypt, 71. 

Historians, modern, their advantages over 
the ancient, 413. Ancient models of, 415. 
The objects of their duty, 417. Character 
of Polybius, 418. Of Thucydides, 419. 
Of Herodotus and Thuanus, 420. Primary 
qualities necessary in a historian, 421. 
Character of Livy and Sallust, 422. Of 
Tacitus, ibid. Instructions and cautions 
to historians, 423. How to preserve the 
dignity of narration, 424. How to render 
it interesting, 425. Danger of refining too 
much in drawing character, 429. Charac- 
ter of the Italian historians, ibid. The 
French and English, 430. 

History, the proper object and end of, 417. 
True, the characters of, ibid. The dif- 
ferent classes of, ibid. General History, 
the proper conduct of, 418. The neces- 
sary qualities of historical narration, 421. 
The propriety of introducing orations in 
history examined, 428. And characters, 
429. The Italians the best modern his- 
torians, ibid. See Annals, Biography, 
Memoirs, and Novels. 

Hogarth, his analysis of beauty considered, 
47. 

R R 



588 



INDEX. 



Homer, not acquainted with poetry as a 
systematic art, 21. Did not possess a re- 
fined taste, 24. Instances of sublimity in, 
35. Is remarkable for the use of personi- 
fication, 131. Story of the Iliad, 511. 
Remarks on, 513. His invention and 
judgment in the conduct of the poem, 514. 
Advantages and defects arising from his 
narrative speeches, 515. His characters, 
ibid. His machinery, 516. His style, 

517. His skill in narrative description, 

518. His similes, ibid. General cha- 
racter of his Odyssey, 519. Defects of 
the Odyssey, ibid. Compared with Virgil, 
520. 

Hooker, a specimen of his style, 207. 

Horace, figurative passages cited from, 157. 
Instance of mixed metaphor, 170. Crowd- 
ed metaphors, 171. His character as a 
poet, 415, 472. Was the reformer of 
satire, 477. 

Humour, why the English possess this 
quality more eminently than other nations, 
576. 

Hyperbole, an explanation of that figure, 
174. Cautions for the use of, 175. Two 
kinds of, ibid. 



Ideas, abstract, entered into the first forma- 
tion of language, 79. 

Jeremiah, his poetical character, 497. See 
Lamentations. 

Iliad, story of, 5ll. Remarks on, 513. The 
principal characters, 515. Machinery of, 
516. 

Imagination, the pleasures of, as specified by 
Mr. Addison, 24. The powers of to en- 
large the sphere of our pleasures, a striking 
instance of Divine benevolence, 25. Is 
the source of figurative language, 150, 154. 

Imitation, considered as a source of pleasure 
to taste, 51. And description distin- 
guished, 52. 

Inferences, from a sermon, the proper man- 
agement of, 384. 

Infinity of space, numbers, or duration, affect 
the mind with sublime ideas, 26. 

Interjections, the first elements of speech, 
56. 

Interrogations, instances of the happy use 
and effect of, 195. Mode of their opera- 
tion, 196. Rule for using, ibid. 

Job, exemplification of the sublimity of ob- 
scurity in the book of, 28. Remarks on 
the style of, 488. The subject and poetry 
of, 498. Fine passage from, ibid. 

Johnson, his character of Dryden's pose 
style, 208, note. His remarks on the style of 
Swift, 261, note. His character of Thom- 
son, 481 , note. His character of Dryden's 
comedies, 577, note. His character of 
Congreve, 578, note. 

Jonson, Ben, his character as a dramatic 
poet, 576. 

Isseus, the rhetorician, his character, 283. 

Isaiah, sublime representation of the Deity in, 
35. His description of the fall of the 
Assyrian empire, 187. His metaphors 
suited to the climate of Judsea, 492, 493. 
His character as a poet, 497. 



Isocrates, the rhetorician, his character 

282. 
Judrea, remarks on the climate and natural 

circumstances of that country, 492. 
Judicial orations, what, 298. 
Juvenal, character of his satires, 477. 



K 



Kaims, Lord, his severe censure for English 
comedies, 579. 

Knight errantry, foundation of the romances 
concerning, 443. 

Knowledge, an essential requisite for elo- 
quence, 401. The progress of, in favour 
of the moderns, upon a comparison with 
the ancients, 413, The acquisition of 
difficult in former ages, 414. 



Lamentations of Jeremiah, the most per- 
fect elegiac composition in the sacred 
Scriptures, 497. 

Landscape, considered as an assemblage of 

beautiful objects, 48. 
Language, the improvement of, studied even 
by rude nations, 1. In what true improve- 
ment of language consists, 2. Importance 
of the study of language, ibid. Defined, 
54. The present refinements of, 55. Ori- 
gin and progress of, 56. The first elements 
of, 57. Analogy between words and things, 
ibid. The great assistance afforded by 
gestures, 59. The Chinese language, 60. 
The Greek and Roman languages, 61. 
Action much used by ancient orators and 
players, ibid. Roman pantomimes, 62. 
Great difference between ancient and mo- 
dern pronunciation, ibid. Figures of 
speech, the origin of, ibid. Figurative 
style of American language;-, 64. Cause of 
the decline of figurative language, ibid. 
The natural and original arrangement of 
words in speech, 65. The arrangement of 
words in modern languages, different from 
that of the ancients, 66. An exemplifica- 
tion, ibid. Summary of the foregoing ob- 
servations, 69. Its wonderful powers, 
159. All language strongly tinctured with 
metaphor, 162. In modern productions, 
often better than the subjects of them, 272. 
Written and oral, distinction between, 404. 
See Grammar, Style, and Writing. 

Latin language, the pronunciation of, musical 
and gesticulating, 61, 140. The natural 
arrangement of words in, 66. The want of 
articles a defect in, 79. Remarks on the 
words deemed synonymous in, 108. 

Learning, an essential requisite for elo- 
quence, 401. 

Lebanon, metaphorical allusions to, in He- 
brew poetry, 492. 

Lee, extravagant hyperbole quoted from, 
176. His character as a tragic poet, 561 

Liberty, the nurse of true genius, 277. 

Literary composition, importance of the study 
of language, preparatory to, 3. The 
beauties of, indefinite, 50. To what class 
the pleasures received from eloquence, 
poetry, and fine writing', are to be referred, 
52. The beauties of, not dependent on 



INDEX. 



587 



tropes and figures, 199. The different 
kinds of, distinguished, 416. See History, 
Poetry, &c. 

Livy, his character as an historian, 422, 426. 

Locke, general character of his style, 210. 
The style of his Treatise on Human Under- 
standing, compared with the writings of 
Lord Shaftesbury, 435. 

Longinus, strictuies on his Treatise on the 
Sublime, 33. His account of the conse- 
querces of liberty, 277. His sententious 
opinion of Homer's Odyssey, 519. 

Lopez de Vega, his character as a dramatic 
poet, 574. 

Love, too much importance and frequency 
allowed to, on the modern stage, 555. 

Lowth's English Grammar recommended, 
101, note. 12^, note. His character of the 
prophet Ezekiel, 498. 

Lucan, instance of his destroying a sublime 
expression of Csesar by amplification, 37. 
Extravagant hyperbole from, 177. Cri- 
tical examination of his Pharsalia, 524. 
The subject, ibid. Character and conduct 
of the story, 525. 

Lucian, character of his dialogues, 437. 

Lucretius, his sublime representation of the 
dominion of superstition over mankind, 
28, note. The most admired passages in 
his Treatise De Rerum Natura, 470. 

Lusiad. See Camoens. 

Lyric poetry, the peculiar character of, 469. 
Four classes of odes, 470. Characters of 
the most eminent lyric poets, 472. 

Lysias, the rhetorician, his character, 283. 

M 

Machiavel, his character as an historian, 430. 
Machinery, the gteat use of, in epic poetry, 

5C9. Cautions for the use of, 510, 516. 
Mackenzie, Sir George, instance of regular 

climax in his pleadings, 198. 
Man, by nature both a poet and musician, 448. 
Marivaux, a character of his novels, 414. 
Marmontel, his comparative remarks on 

French, English, and Italian poetry, 457, 

note. 
Ma'sy, Fr., his contrast between the cha- 
racters of Corneille and Racine, 563, note. 
Massillon, extract from a celebrated sermon 

of his, 340, note. Encomium on, bv Louis 

XIV., 343. His artful division of a text, 

369. 
Memoirs, their class in historical composition 

assigned, 431. Why the French are fond 

of this, kind of writing, 432. 
Metalepsis, in figurative language, explained, 

161. 
Metaphor, in figurative style, explained, 162. 

All language strongly tinctured with, ibid. 

Approaches the nearest to painting, of all 

the figures of speech, 163. Rules to be 

observed in the conduct of, 164. See 

Allegory. 
Metastasio, his character as a dramatic 

writer, 554. 
Metonymy, in figurative style, explained, 161. 
Mexico, historical pictures, the records of 

that empire, 70. 
Milo, narrative of the recounter between him 

and Clodius, by Cicero, 370. 



Milton, instances of sublimity in, 27, 39, 41. 
Of harmony, 138, 147. Hyperbolical sen- 
timents of Satan in, 176. Striking in- 
stances of personification in, 181, 182, 183. 
Excellence of his descriptive poetry, 482. 
Who the proper hero of his Paradise 
Lost, 508. Critical examination of this 
poem, 535. His sublimity characterized, 
537. His language and versification, 538. 

Moderns. See Ancients. 

Moliere, his character as a dramatic poet, 
575. 

Monboddo, Lord, his observations on Eng- 
lish and Latin verse, 455, note. 

Monotony in language, often the result of 
too great attention to musical arrangement, 
144. 

Montague, Lady Mary Wortley, a character 
of her epistolary style, 441. 

Montesquieu, character of his style, 204. 

iYlonumental inscriptions, the numbers suited 
to the style, 146. 

Moralt, M., his severe censure of English 
comedy, 579. 

More, Dr. Kenry, character of his Divine 
Dialogues, 437. 

Motion, considered as a source of beauty, 48. 

Motte, iVl. de la, his observations on lyric 
poetry, 471, note. Remarks on his criti- 
cisms on Homer, 519, note. 

Music, its influence on the passions, 448. 
Its union with poetry, ibid. J heir separa- 
tion injurious to each, 453. 



N 



Naivete, import of that French term, 215. 

Narration, an important point in pleadings at 
the bar, 369. 

Night scenes, commonly sublime, 27. 

Nomic melody of the Athenians, what, 139. 

Novels, a species of writing not so insignifi- 
cant as may be imagined, 441. Might be 
employed for very useful purposes, 442. 
Rise and progress of fictitious history, ibid. 
Characters of the most celebrated romances 
and novels, 443. 

Novelty, considered as a source of beauty, 
51. 

Nouns, substantive, the foundation of al 
grammar, 78. Number, gender, and cases 
of, 80, 83. 



Obscurity, not unfavourable to sublimity, 28. 
Of style, owing to indistinct conceptions, 
103. 

Ode, the nature of, defined, 469. Four dis- 
tinctions of, 470. Obscurity and irregu- 
larity, the great faults in, 471. 

Odyssey, general character of, 519. Defects 
of, ibid. 

CEdipus, an improper character for the stage, 
554. 

Orations, the three kinds of, distinguished by 
the ancients, 298. The present distinctions 
of, ibid. Those in popular assemblies con- 
sidered, 299. Prepared speeches not to be 
trusted to, 301. Necessary degrees of 
premeditation, ibid. Method, 302. Style 
and expression, 303. Impetuosity, 304 



;88 



INDEX 



Attention to decorums, 305. Delivery, 306, 
385. The several parts of a regular ora- 
tion, 359. Introduction, ibid. Introduc- 
tion to replies, 365. Introduction to ser- 
mons, 366. Division of a discourse, ibid. 
Rules for dividing it, 368. Explication, 
369. The argumentative part, 372. The 
pathetic, 377. The peroration, 383. Vir- 
tue necessary to the perfection of eloquence, 
399. Description of a true orator, ibid. 
Qualifications for, 400. The best ancient 
writers on oratory, 407, 416. The use 
made of orations by the ancient historians, 
428. See Eloquence. 

Orators, ancient, declaimed in recitative, 61. 

Oriental poetry, more characteristical of an 
age than of a country, 450. 

style of Scripture language, 64. 

Orlando Furioso. See Ariosto. 

Ossian, instances of sublimity in his works, 
36. Correct metaphors, 169. Confused 
mixture of metaphorical and plain language 
in, ibid. Fine apostrophe in, 186. Deli- 
cate simile, 189. Lively descriptions in, 
189,483,485. 

Otway, his character as a tragic poet, 566. 



Fantomime, an entertainment of Roman ori- 
gin, 59. 

Parables, eastern, their general vehicle for 
the conveyance of truth, 495. 

Paradise Lost, ciitical review of that poem, 
535. The characters in, 536. Sublimity 
of, 537. Language and versification, 538. 

Parenthesis, cautions for the use of them, 
123. 

Paris, his character in the Iliad, examined, 
515. 

Parliament of Great Britain, why eloquence 
has never been so powerful an instrument 
in, as in the ancient popular assemblies of 
Greece and Rome, 297. 

Parnel, his character as a descriptive poet, 
481. 

Particles, cautions for the use of them, 126. 
Ought never to close sentences, 133. 

Passion, the source of oratory, 276. 

Passions, when and how to be addressed by 
orators, 378. The orator must feel emo- 
tions before he can communicate them to 
others, 380. The language of, ibid. Poets 
address themselves to the passions, 446. 

Pastoral poetry, enquiry into its origin, 459. 
- A three-fold view of pastoral life, 460. 
Rules for pastoral writing, 461 . Its scenery, 
462. Characters, 463. Subjects, 465. 
Comparative merits of ancient pastoral 
writers, 466. And of moderns, 467. 

Pathetic, the proper management of, in a 
discourse, 377. Fine instance of, from 
Cicero, 382. 

Pauses, the due uses of, in public speaking, 
393. In poetry, 391, 455. 

Pericles, the first who brought eloquence to 
any degree of perfection. His general 
character, 280. f 

Period. See Sentence. 

Persius, a character of his Satires, 477. 

Personification, the peculiar advantages of the 
English language in, 82, 180. Limitations 



of gender in, ibid. Objections against the 
practice of, answered, 178. The disposi- 
tion to animate the objects about us, natural 
to mankind, ibid. This disposition may 
account for the number of heathen divini- 
ties, 179. Three degrees of this figure, ibid. 
Rules for the management of the highest 
degree of, 183. Caution for the use of, in 
prose compositions, 184. See Apostrophe. 
Perspicuity, essential to a good style, 102. 
Not merely a negative virtue, 103. The 
three qualities of, ibid. 
Persuasion, distinguished from conviction, 
274. Objection brought from the abuse of 
this art, answered, 275. Rules for, 299. 
Peruvians, their method of transmitting their 

thoughts to each other, 71. 
Petronius Arbiter, his address to the de- 
claim ers of his time, 292. 
Pharsalia. See Lucan. 
Pherecydes of Scyros, the first prose writer, 

65. 
Philips, character of his pastorals, 467. 
Philosophers, modern, their superiority over 

the ancient, unquestionable, 413. 
Philosophy, the proper style of writing 
adapted to, 434. Proper embellishments 
for, 435. 
Pictures, the first essay toward writing, 70. 
Pindar, his character as a lyr'c poet, 472. 
Pitcairn, Dr., extravagant hyperbole cited 

from, 177. 
Plato, character of his dialogues, 436. 
Plan! us, his character as a dramatic poet, 

573. 
Pleaders at the bar, instructions to, 318, 369. 
Pliny's Letters, general character of, 439. 
Plutarch, his character as a hiographer, 432. 
Poetry, in what sense descriptive, and in 
what imitative, 53. Is more ancient than 
prose, 64. Source of the pleasure we 
receive from the figurative style of, 182. 
Test of the merit of, 192. Whence the 
difficulty of reading poetry arises, 391. 
Compared with oratory, 398. Epic, the 
standards of, 415. Definition of poetry, 
446. Is addressed to the imagination and 
the passions, ibid. Its origin, 447. In 
what sense older than prose, ibid. Its 
union with music, 448. Ancient history 
and instruction first conveyed in poetry, 
449. Oriental, more characteristical of an 
age than of a country, 450. Gothic and 
Celtic, ibid. Grecian, ibid. Origin of the 
different kinds of, 451 . Was more vigorous 
in its first rude essays than under refine- 
ment, 452. Was injured by the separation 
of music from it, 453. Metrical feet, inven- 
tion of, 454. These measures not appli- 
cable to English poetry, ibid. English 
heroic verse, the structure of, 455. French 
poetry, ibid. Rhyme and blank verse 
compared, 457. Progress of English ver- 
sification, 458. Pastorals, 459. Lyrics, 
469. Didactic poetry, 474. Descriptive 
poetry, 479. Hebrew poetry, 487. Epic 
poetry, 499. Poetic characters, two kinds 
of, 508. Dramatic poetry, 539. 
Pointing, cannot correct a confused sentence, 

122. 
Politics, the science of, why ill understood 
among the ancients, 421. 



INDEX. 



589 



Polybins, his character as an historian,41 8,422. 

Pope, criticism on a passage in his Homer, 
38. Prose, specimen from, consisting of 
short sentences, 114. Other specimens of 
his style, 129, 135. Confnsed mixtures of 
metaphorical and plain language in, 168. 
Mixed metaphor in, 171. Confused per- 
sonification, 184. Instance of his fondness 
for antitheses, 195. Character of his epis- 
tolary writings, 440. Criticism on, ibid. 
Construction of his verse, 455, 456. Pe- 
culiar character of his versification, 458. 
His pastorals, 465, 467. His ethic epistles, 
478. The merits of his various poems 
examined, ibid. Character of his transla- 
tion of Homer, ibid, 517. 

Precision in language, in what it consists, 104. 
Requisites to, 112. The importance of, 115. 

Prepositions, whether more ancient than the 
declension of nouns by cases, 84. Whe- 
ther more useful than beautiful, 85. Dr. 
Campbell's observations on, 86, note. Their 
great use in speech, 92. 

Prior, allegory cited from, 173. 

Pronouns, their use, varieties, and cases, 86. 
Relative iustances, illustrating the impor- 
tance of their proper position in a sentence, 

Pronunciation, distinctness of, necessary in 
public speaking, 386. Tones of, 393. 

Proverbs, book of, a didactic poem, 496. 

Psalm xviii. sublime representation of the 
Deity in, 34. lxxxth, a fine allegory from, 
173. Remarks on the poetic construction 
of the Psalms, 489, 496. 

Pulpit, the eloquence of, defined, 276. Eng- 
lish and French sermons compared, 295. 
The practice of reading sermons in Eng- 
land disadvantageous to oratory, 297. The 
art of persuasion resigned to the J'uritans, 
ibid. Advantages and disadvantages of 
pulpit eloquence, 330. Rules for preaching, 
331. The chief characteristics of pulpit 
eloquence, 332. Whether it is best to read 
sermons, or deliver them extempore, 338. 
Pronunciation, ibid. Remarks on French 
sermons, 339. Cause of the dry argumen- 
tative style of English sermons, 341. Gen- 
eral observations, 342. 

Pvsistratus, the first who cultivated the arts 
"of speech, 280. 



Quinctilian, his ideas of taste, 10, note. His 
account of the ancient division of the sev- 
eral parts of speech, 77, note. His remarks 
on the importance of the study of grammar, 
93. On perspicuity of style, 102, 108. On 
climax, 131, 132. On the structure of 
sentences, 134. Which ought not to offend 
the ear, 136, 143. His caution against too 
great an attention to harmony, 144. His 
caution against mixed metaphor, 169. His 
fine apostrophe on the death of his son, 
186. His rule for the use of similes, 192. 
His directions for the use of figures of style, 
201. His distinctions of style, 203, 211. 
His instructions for good writing, 222. 
His character of Cicero's oratory, 289. 
His instructions to public speakers for pre- 
serving decorum*, 305. His instructions 



to judicial pleaders, 317. His observations 
on exordiums to replies in debate, 365. On 
the proper division of an oration, 367. His 
mode of addressing the passions, 381. His 
lively representation of the effects of de- 
pravity, 400. Is the best ancient writer on 
oratory, 408. 



Racine, his character as a tragic poet, 563. 

Ramsay, Allan, character of his Gentle Shep- 
herd, 469. 

Rapin, P., remarks on his parallels between 
Greek and Roman Writers, 291. 

Retz, Cardinal de, character of his memoirs, 
432. 

Rhetoricians, Grecian, rise and character 
of, 281. 

Rhyme, in English verse, unfavourable to 
sublimity, 38. And blank verse compared, 
457. The former, why improper in the 
Greek and Latin languages, 458. The 
first introduction of couplets in English 
poetry, 459. 

Richardson, a character of his novels, 445. 

Ridicule, an instrument often misapplied, 668. 

Robinson Crusoe, character of that novel, 
445. 

Romance, derivation of the term, 443. See 
Novels. 

Romans, derived their learning from Greece, 
286. Comparison between them and the 
Greeks, 287. Historical view of their elo- 
quence, ibid. Oratorical character of 
Cicero, ibid. Era of the decline of elo- 
quence among, 292. 

Rousseau, Jean Baptiste, his character as a 
lyric poet, 473. 

Rowe, his character as a tragic poet, 567. 



Sallust, his character as an historian, 422. 

Sannazarius, his piscatory eclogues, 467. 

Satan, examination of his character in Milton's 
Paradise Lost, 536. 

Satire, poetical, general remarks on the style 
of, 476. 

Saxon language, how estab'ished in England, 
94. 

Scenes, dramatic, what, and the proper con- 
duct of, 550. 

Scriptures, sacred, the figurative style of, 
remarked, 64. The translators of, happy 
in suiting their numbers to the subject, 146. 
Fine apostrophe in, 187. Present us with 
the most ancient monuments of poetry ex- 
tant, 487. The diversity of style in the 
several books of, 488. The Psalms of 
David, ibid. No other writings abound 
with such bold and animated figures, 491. 
Parables, 495. Bold and sublime instances 
of personification in, ibid. Book of Pro- 
verbs, 496. Lamentations of Jeremiah, 
ibid, 

Scuderi, Madam, her romances, 414. 

Seneca, his frequent antithesis censured, 194. 
Character of his general style, 206, 435. 
His epistolary writings, 438. 

Sentence, in laDguage, definition of, 113. Dis- 
tinguished into long and short, ibid. A 



590 



INDEX. 



variety in, to be studied, 114. The pro- 
perties essential to a perfect sentence, 115. 
A principal rule for arranging the members 
of, 116. Position of Adverbs, ibid. And 
relative pronouns, 117. Unity of a sen- 
tence, rules for preserving, 119. Pointing, 
122. Parentheses, 123. Should always 
be brought to a perfect close, ibid. Strength, 

124. Should be cleared of redundancies, 

125. Due attention to particles recom- 
mended, 126. The omission of particles 
sometimes connects objects closer together, 
127. Directions for placing the important 
words, 128, 130. Climax, 131. A like 
order necessary to be observed in all asser- 
tions or propositions, 133. Sentences ought 
not to conclude with a feeble word, ibid. 
Fundamental rule in the construction of, 
134. Sound not to be disregarded, 136. 
Two circumstances to be attended to for 
producing harmony in, 137, 145. Rules 
of the ancient rhetoricians for this purpose, 
139. Why harmony much less studied now 
than formerly, ibid. English words cannot 
be so exactly measured by metrical feet as 
those of Greek and Latin, 141. What is 
required for the musical close of a sentence, 
142. Unmeaning words introduced merely 
to round a sentence, a great blemish, 144. 
Sounds ought to be adapted to sense, 
145, 146. 

Sermons, English, compared with French, 
295. Unity an indispensable requisite in, 
333. The subject ought to be precise and 
particular, ibid. The subject not to be 
exhausted, 334. Cautions against dry- 
ness, 335 ; and anainst conforming to 
fashionable modes of preaching, 336. Style, 
ibid. Quaint expressions, 337. Whe- 
ther best to be written or delivered extem- 
pore, 338. Delivery, ibid. Remarks on 
French sermons, 339. Cause of the dry 
argumentative style of English sermons, 
341 , 342. Remarks on the proper divisions 
of, 367. Conclusion, 383. Delivery, 385. 

Sevigne, Madam de, character of her Let- 
ters, 441. 

Shaftesbury, Lord, observations on his style, 
106, 114, 121, 129, 145, 172. His general 
character as a writer, 218. 

Shakespeare, the merit of his plays examined, 
22. Was not possessed of a refined taste, 
24. Instance ol his improper use of meta- 
phor, 166, 169 Exhibits passions in the 
language of nature, 558. His character as 
a tragic poet, 565. Asa comic poet, 576. 

Shenstone, his pastoral ballad, 468. 

Shepherd, the proper character of, in pas- 
toral description, 404. 

Sheiidan, his distinction between ideas and 
emotions, 393, note. 

Sherlock, Bishop, fine instance of personifi- 
cation cited from his sermons, 180. A 
happy allusion cited from his sermons, 337, 
note. 

Silius Italicus, his sublime representation of 
Hannibal. 30, note. 

Simile, distinguished from metaphor, 162, 
188. Sources of the pleasure they afford, 
ibid, Two kinds of, 189. Requisites in, 
130. Rules for, 191. Local propriety to 
be adhered to in, 193. 



Simplicity, applied to style, different senses 
of the term, 213. 

Smollet, improper use of figurative style, 
cited from, 166, note. 

Solomon's Song, descriptive beauties of, 497. 

Songs, Runic, the origin of Gothic history, 
449. 

Sophists of Greece, rise and character of, 
281. 

Sophocles, the plots of his tragedies re- 
markably simple, 544. Excelled in the 
pathetic, 558. His character as a tragic 
poet, 561. 

Sorrow, why the emotions of, excited by 
tragedy, communicate pleasure, 549. 

Sounds, of an awful nature, affect us with 
sublimity, 27. Influence of, in the forma- 
tion of words, 57. 

Speaker, public, must be directed more by 
his ear than by rules, 141. 

Spectator, general character of that publica- 
tion, 225. Critical examination of those 
papers that treat of the pleasures of ima- 
gination, 226. 

Speech, the powers of, the distinguishing 
privilege of mankind, 1. The grammatical 
division of, into eight parts, not logical, 77. 
Of the ancients, regulated by musical 
rules, 139. 

Strada, his character as an historian, 430. 

Style, in language defined, 101. The differ- 
ence of, in different countries, 102. The 
qualities of a good style, ibid. Perspi- 
cuity, ibid. Obscurity, owing to indistinct 
conceptions, 103. Three requisite quali- 
ties in perspicuity, ibid. Precision, 104. 
A loose style, from what it proceeds, 105. 
loo great an attention to precision renders 
a style dry and barren, 112. French dis- 
tinction of style, 113. The characters of, 
flow from peculiar modes of thinking, 200. 
Different subjects require a different style, 
202. Ancient distinctions of, 263. The 
different kinds of, 204. Concise and diffu- 
sive, on what occasions proper, ibid. 
Nervous and feeble, 206. A harsh style, 
from what it proceeds, 207. iEra of the 
formation of our present style, 208. Dry 
manner described, 209. A plain style, 
ibid. Neat style, 210. Elegant stvle, 
211. Florid style, ibid. Natural style, 213. 
Different senses of the term simplicity, 
ibid. The Greek writers distinguished for 
simplicity, 215. Vehement style, 219. 
General directions how to attain a good 
siyle, 221. Imitation dangerous, 223. 
Style not to be studied to the neglect of 
thoughts, 224. Critical examination of 
those papers in the Spectator that treat of 
the pleasures of the imagination, 226. 
Critical examination of a passage in Swift's 
writings. 261. General observations, 272. 
See Eloquence. 

Sublimity of external objects, and sublimity 
in writing, distinguished, 26. Its impres- 
sions, ibid. Oi" space, ibid. Of sounds, 
27. Violence of the elements, ibid. So- 
lemnity bordering on the terrible, ibid. 
Obscurity not unfavourable to, 28. In 
building, 29. Heroism, ibid. Great virtue, 
3 J. V\ hether there is anyone fundamental 
quality in the sources of sublime, 31. 



INDEX, 



591 



Sublimity in writing defined, 32. Errors in 
Longinus pointed out, 33. The most an- 
cient writers afford the most striking in- 
stances of sublimity, 34. Sublime repre- 
sentation of the Deity in Psalm xviii. ibid. 
And in the prophet Habakkuk, ibid. In 
Moses and Isaiah, 35. Instances of sub- 
limity in Homer, ibid. In Ossian, 36. 
Amplification injurious to sublimity, 37. 
Rhyme in English verse unfavourable to, 

38. Strength essential to sublime writing, 

39. A proper choice of circumstances 
essential to sublime description, 40. Stric- 
tures on Virgil's description of Mount 
Etna, 41. The proper sources of the 
sublime, 42. Sublimity cousists in the 
thought, not in the words, 43. The faults 
opposed to the sublime, 44. 

Sully, Duke de, character of his Memoirs, 
432. 

Superstition, sublime representation of its 
dominion over mankind from Lucretius, 
28, note. 

Swift, observations on his style, 98, 104, 112, 
1 24, 134. General character of his style, 
209. Critical examination of the begin- 
ning of his proposal for correcting, &c. 
the English tongue, 261. Concluding 
observations, 272. His language, 405. 
Character of his epistolary writing, 440. 

Syllables, English, cannot be so exactly mea- 
sured by metrical feet, as those of Greek 
and Latin, 139. 

Synecdoche, in figurative style, explained, 
161. 

Synonymous words, observations on, 108. 



Tacitus, character of his style, 415. His 
character as an historian, 423. His happy 
manner of introducing incidental observa- 
tions, 424. Instance of his successful 
talent in historical painting, 427. His de- 
fects as a writer, 428. 

Tasso, a passage from his Gierasalemme dis- 
tinguished by the harmony of numbers, 
147. Strained sentiments in his pastorals, 
464. Character of his Aminta, 468. 
Critical examination of this poem, 527. 

Taste, true, the uses of, in common life, 7. 
Definition of, 9. Is more or less common 
to all men, 10. Is an improvable faculty, 
11. How to be refined, 12. Is assisted 
by reason, ibid. A good heart requisite to 
a just taste, 13. Delicacy and correctness 
the characters of perfect taste, ibid. Whe- 
ther there be any standard of taste, 15. 
The diversity of, in different men, no evi- 
dence of their tastes being corrupted, 16. 
The test of, referred to the concurring 
voice of the polished part of mankind, ibid. 
Distinguished from genius, 23. The sources 
of pleasure in, 24. The powers of, en- 
large the sphere of our pleasures, 25. 
Imitation, as a source of pleasure, 51. 
Music, 52. To what class the pleasures 
received from eloquence, poetry, and fine 
writing, are to be referred, ibid* 

Telemachus. See Feuelon. 

Temple, Sir William, observations on his 
siyle, 106. Specimens of, 113, 121, 124, 



127, 145. His general character as a 
writer, 216. 

Terence, beautiful instance of simplicity 
from, 215. His character as a dramatic 
writer, 647. 

Terminations of words, the variations of, in 
the Greek and Latin languages, favourable 
to the liberty of transposition, 68. 

Theocritus, the earliest known writer of pas- 
torals, 460. His talent in painting rural 
scenery, 462. Character of his pastorals, 
466. 

Thomson, fine passage from, where he ani- 
mates all nature, 182. Character of his 
Seasons, 481. His eulogium by Dr. John- 
son, ibid. note. 

Thuanus, his character as an historian, 420. 

Thucydides, his character as an historian, 
419. Was the first who introduced ora- 
tions in historical narration, 428. 

Tillotson, archbishop, observations on his 
style, 106, 119, 142, 166. General cha- 
racter of, as a writer, 216. 

Tones, the due management of, in public 
speaking, 393. 

Topics, among the ancient rhetoricians, ex- 
plained, 372. 

Tragedy, how distinguished from comedy, 
539. More particular definition of, 540. 
Subject and conduct of, ibid. Rise and 
progress of, 541. The three dramatic 
unities, ibid. Division of the representa- 
tion into acts, 546. The catastrophe, 548. 
Why the sorrow excited by Tragedy com- 
municates pleasure, 549. The proper 
idea of scenes, and how to be conducted, 
550. Characters, 553. Higher degrees of 
morality more inculcated by modern than 
by ancient tragedy, 555. Too great use 
made of the passion of love on the modern 
stages, ibid. All tragedies expected to be 
pathetic, 556. The proper use of moral 
reflections in, 559. The proper style and 
versification of, ibid. Brief view of the 
Greek stage, 560. French Tragedy, 562. 
English tragedy, 565. Concluding obser- 
vations, 567. 

Tropes, a definition of, 151. Origin of, 153. 
The rhetorical distinctions among, frivo- 
lous, 161. 
Turnus, the character of, not favourably 

treated in the iEneid, 522. 
Turpin, archbishop of Rheims, a romance 

writer, 443. 
Typographical figures of speech, what, 197. 



Vanburgh, his character as a dramatic writer. 
578. 

Verbs, their nature and office explained, 88. 
No sentence complete without a verb ex- 
pressed or implied, 89. The tenses, ibid. 
The advantage of English over the Latin 
in the variety of tenses, 90. Active and 
passive, ibid. Are the most artificial and 
complex of all the parts of speech, 91. 

Verse, blank, more favourable to sublimity 
than rhyme, 38. Instructions for the 
reading of, 392. Construction of, 457. 

Virgil, instances of sublimity in, 28, 40, 41, 
Of harmony, 148, 149. Simplicity of 



592 



INDEX. 



language, 152. Figurative language, 161, 
177, 186. Specimens of his pastoral de- 
scriptions, 461, note, 463. Character of 
his pastoral , 466. His Georgics, a perfect 
model of didactic poetry, 474. The prin- 
cipal beauties in the Georgics, 476. Beau- 
tiful descriptions in his iEneid, 484. 
Critical examination of that poem, 520. 
Compared with Homer, 523. 

Virtue, high degrees of, a source of the sub- 
lime, 30. A necessary ingredient to form 
an eloquent orator, 399. 

Vision, the figure of speech so termed, in 
what it consists, 197. 

Unities, dramatic, the advantages of adhering 
to, 544. Why the moderns are less re- 
stricted to the unities of time and place 
than the ancients, 552. 

Voice, the powers of, to be studied in public 
speaking, 386. 

Voiture, character of his epistolary writings, 
441. 

Voltaire, his character as an historian, 433. 
Critical examination of his Henriade, 534. 
His argument for the use of rhyme in 
dramatic compositions, 560. His character 
as a tragic poet, 564. 

Vossius, Joannes Gerardus, character of his 
writings on eloquence, 407. 

W. 

Waller, the first English poet 
couplets into vogue, 459. 



iho brought 



Wit, is to be very sparingly used at the bar 
319. 

Words, obsolete and new coined, incongru- 
ous with purity of style, 103. Bad con- 
sequences of their being ill chosen, 104. 
Observations on those termed synonymous, 
108. Considered with reference to sound 
137. 

Words and things, instances of the analogy 
between, 57. 

Writers of genius, why they have been more 
numerous in one age than in another, 409. 
Four happy ages of, pointed out, 410. 

Writing, two kinds of, distinguished, 70. 
Pictures, the first essay in, ibid. Hiero- 
glyphics the second, ibid. Chinese cha- 
racters, 72. Arithmetical figures, ibid. 
The considerations which led to the inven- 
tion of an alphabet, 73. Cadmus's alpha- 
bet, the origin of that now used, 74. His- 
torical account of the materials used to 
receive writing, 75. General remarks 
ibid. See Grammar. 



Y. 



Young, Dr., his poetical character, 170. 
Too fond of antitheses, 195. The merit 
of his works examined, 479. His cha- 
racter as a tragic poet, 567. 



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